


The Beast of their Stories

by KelAlannan



Category: Black Sails
Genre: Beauty and the Beast AU, Gratuitous references to classical literature and mythology, M/M, Mentions of past abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-20
Updated: 2017-12-15
Packaged: 2019-01-20 11:35:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 29,164
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12431994
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KelAlannan/pseuds/KelAlannan
Summary: Seven years after Thomas is thrown in Bethlem, seven years after he learned James drowned at sea, the ship carrying him to the colonies is waylaid by the cursed ship Cerberus and her dread Captain Flint.It's a Beauty and the Beast inspired AU, so you know the rest.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * In response to a prompt by [iwtv](https://archiveofourown.org/users/iwtv/pseuds/iwtv) in the [MeditationsII](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/MeditationsII) collection. 



_Once upon a time, there was a promising young lieutenant in His Majesty's Navy by the name of James McGraw. The ladies of London found him dashing, with his red hair, broad shoulders, and impeccable manners. But for all his knowledge and the trust of his men, the Admiralty worried about his beastly temper. So they assigned him far from the sea as liaison to a family of considerable influence and controversy._

_They did not expect Lieutenant McGraw to fall in love. Much less with the fair Lord Thomas Hamilton, who had hair beneath his wig that shined of gold, eyes of the bluest seas, and roses in his cheeks. The Lord and his lieutenant together made grand plans for the empire, argued and written in the salons and their bedchamber. And at the end of every night, Lord Hamilton promised his shying liaison, "I love you."_

_But their affair was discovered by the wicked Earl of Ashbourne, Thomas' father. He sent Thomas away, stripped of his dignity, to a mental hospital, while the Admiralty gave the heartbroken lieutenant the chance to flee. James McGraw took to the sea and was not heard of in London anymore._

 

Seven years later...

 

"Have ye heard o' the Cerberus, lad?" an old salt on the merchant packet asks a young hand. 

The boy shakes his head and the man laughs. "Then sit close and I'll tell ye."

Thomas Hamilton, passenger, shifts closer from where he had been sitting nearby, hands clutching a mug of tea. He knows the tone of voice that accompanies a good ghost story. And Bethlem lacked any stories but the ones you could keep in your head. 

"No one knows where she come from, see. But there's a ship where we going with Cerberus written on the stern. Nay, not painted. _Scratched_. She bears down on you in the lightest wind and that's when you see it. _She got no hands on board_. Not but one. 

"A great beast stands on deck. Not even at the helm, no, the ship steers herself. It stands as tall as two men and is covered with copper hair, longer and thicker than even the bears in the circus. He boards ye, swift as a powder monkey. And then he chooses."

"Chooses what?" the youngster asks, eyes as round as cannonballs in the dim light. 

"His victim," the old hand answers, with relish. "He picks a cove, or a lass, if'n it's a passenger ship, and takes them over to his ship. And they never be seen again."

Breathlessly, the boy asks, "What happens to the crew?"

"Weel, if'n they don't fight back, they go free, bob's your uncle. If'n they do...why, he'll strike a man down with one swipe o' his great paws. Or he'll slit their throat with one o' his claws."

The man is a credible storyteller. Thomas speaks up. "That's a fine tale for a dark night like this."

Cunningly, the man replies, "Tale, you say? No tale, sir, I seen the Cerberus and her dread captain meself. Chose one of the hands, Darby, 'e was. Much of your age, sir, used ta play the pipe for us. The cove went willingly, they all do, with the lives of their brothers riding on it."

The young hand starts peppering him with questions, while Thomas, having finished his tea, returns to his bunk. He'll have to find the man again, draw more of his stories from him. Knowing only the men on this ship, it's astounding, the mythology of the sailor. If he was at liberty, he would find of there is written a book on it. He wonders if he'll have the liberty to read again, on this plantation he's being spirited away to. 

As he sags into his hammock, he curses his weak constitution. Bethlem laid waste to his body, he's found, in the open door world of the free man. Not that a ship is an open door, when you and 60-odd souls cannot simply leave the boundaries, but it's a great deal more free than a solitary cell. 

He drifts to sleep and dreams about ghost ships.

* * *

They've passed the Bahamas and Georgia is only a few days out when the lookout cries, "Sail!" Thomas is wakened in his bunk by the pounding of feet overhead. 

He climbs on deck, near where the captain is squinting through his eyeglass. "It's her," a rough voice says by his elbow. It's the old storyteller. "The Cerberus. Captain's frowning cos 'e don't see any hands on deck yet she just set her courses. Told ye it was no tale, me lord."

Anon, the captain orders all passengers to his cabin and hands one of the men a key to lock themselves inside. Out the stern windows, Thomas sees the ship drawing near. He abandons his lookout to comfort the captain's daughter, who is crying softly into her handkerchief. 

They hear the whistle and splash of a warning shot and everyone holds their breath for a moment. Before long, the ship pulls beside them. The silence is torture and goes on for so long. Then the inhabitants of the cabin hear heavy footsteps treading outside the door. 

"There are people inside. Open this door." The voice is terrible, deep and echoing yet sharp as a blade. 

"I don't have the key, sir!" Thomas can practically hear the captain wringing his hands. 

"Open it, or I will."

"As I said, I—" 

With a long groan of cracking wood and the screech of tearing metal, the door is ripped from the bulkhead. A woman screams and faints dead away. Thomas kneels beside her, ignoring the clench of fear in his stomach. The slow, heavy tread sounds about the room. It draws near and then the beast says, "Stand up. Turn around."

Thomas assumes it could only be speaking to him. He stands. He turns around. 

The beast stands not quite as high as the sailor had said, but it is a head taller than he and Thomas is by no means a man of short stature. With the light of the cabin windows behind it, Thomas cannot see its face. It is only a very large, very menacing silhouette. And where its dark edges meet the light, he sees shaking, trembling as if a greater rage simmers under the surface. 

It stands there for some time, silently regarding him. He stares boldly back, if its eyes are indeed meeting his. Off to the side, he sees the captain and one of the passengers exchanging nervous looks. 

The beast finally speaks, its voice still harsh but its tone gentler. "Will you come with me aboard my ship? I swear that no harm will befall you there." 

Thomas remembers the sailor's story: 'They never be seen again.'

"May I know why?" Thomas asks. 

There is silence again once he speaks. He almost repeats the question when the beast stirs. "Not now, no. I may be a beast but I am a beast of honor and I swear that no harm will come to you."

"But you will harm this crew, should I say no."

"As you say." It's a sad beast, Thomas thinks. He's not sure why. 

Though his survival instinct begs him to defer, he thinks of the life imprisonment that awaits him on the other side of this voyage and ducks his head on a wry chuckle. "What have I to lose? Yes, I will come with you."

The beast turns and stalks through the ship. Thomas follows it, as if spelled, onto the deck. He gasps as an arm suddenly grasps him around the waist. That is nothing next to the shock of the creature lowering itself and then leaping across to the opposite ship, with him still under its arm. 

Once on deck, the beast releases him as quickly as if he were a coal from the brazier and stalks away, leaving Thomas alone and very confused on deck. He still hasn't gotten a good look at his captor, only an impression of russet hair and dark clothing. He has no idea where he is, what this ship is, why he's here, or why he's not as a-feared as he should be. 

He wraps his arms around himself and shivers. He's been cold since leaving Bethlem, though he understands that they've been sailing the tropics and he should be, in fact, quite warm. Either way, this ship–the Cerberus, he guesses–is moving with preternatural speed and the merchantman is growing fainter and fainter towards the horizon. Thomas is alone on a ship with some sort of beast that, until now, only existed in mythologies. 

He turns away from the remnants of the outside world and decides to focus on what's at hand. Only now does Thomas notice that things are happening around him. Lines are dropping to the deck and then returning to their cleats. Above his head, sails unfurl. Spare line makes itself into coils as he watches. The ship's wheel takes several turns and then holds steady. With no man's touch upon it. 

Thomas is quite overcome. He stumbles towards the hatch leading inside, hoping to find...something. Normalcy, other passengers to make sense of this, inanimate objects behaving the way the ought to. And sure enough, there is some level of normalcy below deck, though perhaps it is just that there is less to manipulate. He passes through a large common area, towards a sliver of light peeking through a doorway ajar. He lets himself be drawn to it like a moth to a flame. 

Inside he finds a roomy cabin, hastily erected, if his eye for the woodwork is correct, with a snug bunk and a chest of drawers. There's a sea-chest on the floor which, when he opens it, yields wool blankets and such attire as for foul weather on deck. A good pair of boots, too, which he pulls out immediately. The hastily bought leather shoes which his factor had pressed on him as he dressed to leave Bethlem pinched his toes and were already falling apart under the influence of the salt air, he was given to understand. He pulls them off with some difficulty and puts them aside instantly. 

He opens the drawers of the bureau and finds underclothes and stockings, shirts of varying color and thickness, and good linen breeches and trousers. Even a waistcoat or two. A fine but hard-wearing coat is hung on a series of hooks on the wall. 

While his mind is racing, Thomas' body feels like it may collapse at any moment, so not even undressing, he falls into his bunk, dead asleep.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I upped the rating upon further writing. It's a couple chapters in the future still, but let me know if you want me to give a heads up to skip it.

Hunger wakes Thomas several hours later. He hesistates upon standing, then decides his need for food is greater than his desire for fresh clothing. Opening his cabin door, he emerges into the main underbelly of the ship. Glancing to the side, the door at the far end of the passageway is shut. 

He turns the other direction and finds himself in what must be the main saloon of the ship. There are several tables curiously mounted and benches beside them. Thomas follows his eyes and his nose to one table upon which he sees several bowls and dishes. As he approaches, his mouth starts to water. The table is set with one place of hardened clay plating and slightly tarnished silver flatware. The platters hold a variety of foods, as varied and exquisite as if he was at a London banquet again. Here, a loaf of dark brown bread. There, a steaming bowl of stew with chunks of game in it. Just before him, carved slices of what looks to be roast pig. Some dishes he doesn't even recognize, but they smell of exotic spices. 

He sits and takes the napkin beside his place, then startles back as the table rocks beneath his touch. Now he notices that table is gently swaying with the rocking of the ship. Yet the food, so precariously piled on top, does not move. Looking beneath the tabletop, he sees that it is mounted such that the ship swings around it and what sits on top is undisturbed. A marvel of engineering. Thomas is no expert on ship engineering, but he had never heard of such a thing. With a pang, he thinks of he who would have known. James. 

He pushes the thought away, sadly, then starts serving food onto his plate, a little bit of everything. He moans at the first mouthful of the succulent meat. The merchantship had had the most basic of food, and little at that, and the food at Bethlem barely deserved to be called such. It had minded him of slop in the pig troughs at his father's country estate. It must be seven years since he has food this available, this delectable, and he sets his silverware down for a moment while he masters himself. 

Impatiently brushing water from his eyes—who cries over food?—he resumes eating. He eats his fill and then some and then, furtively, scrapes another plate's worth in front of him and carries it back to his cabin. For later, he thinks, telling himself that it's logic and not the fear of being without that causes him to do so. 

He changes into cream colored breeches and stockings, since he still shivers even in the summer clime, and a shirt of tan linen. So attired, he pulls on the black leather boots. Shakespeare said: "The apparel doth oft proclaim the man" and the sheer pleasure of choosing his own clothes makes Thomas feel like more of his own man than he has in seven years. 

He ventures back up to deck, but not a creature but the wind stirs. On a whim, he dashes down a line from its pin and is astounded to see it do itself back up. "This may take more getting used to than I have the capacity for at this time," he murmurrs, heading once more for the hatch. 

Less stirs below. The feast lays untouched on the table, as if waiting for a belated diner and Thomas wonders if he was supposed to wait for his...host to join him. 

It doesn't matter. Thomas wills himself to be his own man now. 

He drifts about the ship. He finds the galley, as warm as if it had been just cooking, but as deserted as the deck. Here in the forecastle is the anchor's berth, but he does not see any other berth for man. 

The last territories beyond his explorations lie on the same passageway as his own cabin. The doors there are firmly shut and Thomas had learned in Bethlem about closed doors. He leaves them shut. 

To his joy, he finds Don Quixote on the chest top when he stops back into his cabin. He doesn't even open it until he's hidden in the very bow of the ship and then he caresses it like a lover: runs fingers down its cracked spine and, trembling, over the nameplate. How long since he had held a book? How long since he had smelled paper and ink and the history of those who had held it before him? 

He carries Don Quixote on deck and casts about for a place to sit. The back deck is highest, so he climbs the elegant stairs carved into the wood on this side and that of the ship. From there, the whole deck is laid out before him. But, closer, Thomas notices a pile of cushions by the rail. Had they been there before? He imagines they would slide and tumble around the deck as the ship moved in concert with the waves. Pushing questions to the side, Thomas sinks down gracefully. The pillows feel like real goose feather, which he had slept on in his—his father's—home and chamber. 

He reads through the morning even as the sun reaches its zenith. His skin is warmed and even the wooden decking holds its own heat. But at noon, why should the light be dimmed? No, that's not right. He casts his eyes upward and sees that a canvas of no inconsiderable size is stretched out above him, sheltering him from the too familiar sun. He certainly hadn't seen or heard anyone put it up, but there it is, directly over his head. 

He puts Don Quixote aside and pulls his knees up to rest his arms on them to think. Whatever this ship and its Captain are, they are not of nature. Supernatural, perhaps. Not likely of God either, or at least the Christian God. It has a flavor of the Greek gods about it, like the Minotaur guarding the labyrinth. Thomas considers himself a practical man, but there have been too many strange occurrences to brush off or explain by way of science. 

As for the ship's Beast Captain, what—or who—is it—he? He stands on two feet, walks like a man and talks like a man. He could not see his face in the dark cabin, but he knew the instinctual feeling that this was not a man. It will require further study, but he has not seen the Beast yet today. 

He is in uncharted waters and not sure of his position. But fear of the unknown is better left to men of weaker constitutions. All there is to it, he guesses, is to take it in stride. Keep his head above water. Survive. 

This was the first of three days that pass in which Thomas does not see his mysterious host. He knows he's still aboard, for he hears movement from the captain's cabin and, occasionally, the sound of tearing wood, howling, and whining, like an animal injured. It leaves him uneasy, but the Beast had told him that he had nothing to fear. Was it a lie, meant to make him come quietly? Thomas doesn't think so. The Beast's voice had been kindly when it spoke to him and Thomas felt trust towards him. 

Seven years ago, he would have prayed for guidance and protection. He had given up praying after year three in Bethlem.

* * *

Thomas wakes up early on the fourth day and notes with wonder that the sun's first rays are creeping over the horizon. There had been little of beauty in London, none at all in Bethlem, and Thomas means to enjoy every sight of it he can afford. The sea is no longer the black of night, but the color of dark wine. Vivid reds and oranges fade into pastel and then dissipate into clear blue. Only once this transformation is complete does he turn from the rail to break fast inside. He startles to find the Beast standing at the opposite rail, watching him. 

Thomas bows. "Good morning to you, sir."

"Don't bow to me," he growls. "I am no one."

In the pale daylight, Thomas takes the opportunity to examine him. The rising sun sets the beast's red hair (fur?) aflame. Thomas watches the light dance across each individual strand. He notices too that he is dressed like a man, in a heavy black leather coat, a once-white shirt worn soft, and black trousers. He wears no shoes and his feet mind Thomas of a lion, the great maned creature he had once seen in a zoo in Paris. 

"May I have your name?" Thomas asks.

He can see his face now and his eyes are incongruously human. And terribly sad. Thomas feels an ache in his chest in sympathy, even though the beast has just kidnapped him. He still doesn't know what to expect, so he hardens his heart, as he had had to do towards his fellow inmates at the hospital. 

The human eyes are the color of the sea when whipped by the wind into a frenzy and they close at the question. Then reopen. "I am Captain Flint of the Cerberus. You may call me what you like." 

"Thank you, Captain. You may call me Thomas." 

"Just...Thomas?"

"Just Thomas."

The Beast Captain sketches him a polite bow. "Thank you." Hesitantly he asks, "Has everything been to your satisfaction? If you have needs I or my ship can fill, you need only ask."

"I can find no fault with the hospitality. It's only that I'm not sure why I'm here. Or where here is. Or what comes next."

"I will answer what I can. Here is the Cerberus, my ship." His gruff voice takes on a mocking tone than subsides. "A ghost ship doomed to wander the sea forever. I have...nearly everything I could wish for. But it's a solitary life and I seek companionship now and then. I'm glad you decided to join me."

Thomas raises an eyebrow."'Decided'? You said you would harm the crew. I wouldn't stand for that."

"Except I didn't say I would harm them. You did."

Thomas replays the conversation and has to admit that the Beast is technically correct. "Am I expected to entertain you? I'm afraid you'll find me poor company."

"Never," Flint says sincerely. He does not elaborate further. 

"And I have little news of the outside world to share with you. I have not been a part of it for some time."

Surprisingly, the Beast Captain does not ask about this. He merely replies, "I have no need for news. I am not of that world. Just another voice to talk to, a mind to congress with is what I sought."

Thomas looks down to study his hands. "I can not fault anyone for that. Not when I have spent time wishing for the same, in vain. To tell the truth, I did not look forward to the end of my voyage. Do you take me somewhere else?"

"No, you will be my guest on his ship until you decide to go. Or stay."

An enigmatic turn of phrase. While still trying to parse the meaning, Thomas invites, "Would you care to eat with me? I was just on my way inside."

"I've no need for breakfast, but thank you."

"Supper, then?" Thomas himself is surprised by his insistence, except that he senses some great mystery to the Cerberus and its enigmatic captain. 

"If you're sure," Flint tempers. 

"Much as I would like to, I cannot eat all the food on your generous table by myself. Though I assume it's part of whatever magic or devilry sails this ship, it is a shame to waste it."

The Beast Captain studies his face then says, "Thank you. I will see you at supper."

Thomas ducks inside, where the usual sumptuous spread of breakfast pastries and meats await him. He hadn't gotten much information from his host, but it still leaves him with plenty to think about. 

Supper is an awkward and mostly silent affair. Thomas makes such small talk as any lord learns to do while Captain Flint, sitting across from him, says few words each time in answer. Though it's hard to get a reading on someone inhuman, Thomas thinks that "quiet" is not his natural state. He glimpses thought unutterred in his eyes and wonders what about his presence could cause such a stir. It's inconceivable that he could make someone so much larger than him nervous. 

Eventually, Thomas finishes his food and lays his utensils down politely. He considers refilling a plate for his cabin, but he feels self-conscious doing it in front of someone else. 

The Beast Captain finishes not long after and Thomas rises to bid him goodnight, when Flint speaks. "I have something I would like to show you, that may make your time here more enjoyable."

Thomas cocks his head to the side. "I'll follow your lead, Captain."

The Beast starts walking down the passageway, past Thomas' cabin, very nearly to the door at the end. But he turns at the last minute and opens instead another door. 

Thomas sees only black, then lanterns spring to light and Thomas steps forward eagerly, on instinct. All around the walls are bookshelves, filled to the brim with beautiful books. The air in here smells of ink, parchment, and leather and Thomas finds his mind goes quiet in peace and comfort. He walks to the nearest shelf and finds books on navigation, star charts, navigational aids. A shelf further, he finds histories, tomes as thick as he has ever seen. 

Thomas runs his hand along the length of the wall, feeling the worn and cracked leather spines under the pads of his fingers. It reminds him of his library at home and while it is nowhere near as plentiful or complete as the archives in London, he finds more joy here than he ever did anywhere else. He longs to dive into the first novel, to escape the chains of dullness that Bethlem had forced upon his mind as well as his body. 

Reaching the back wall, he doubles back to the desk in the cabin's center and falls into the leather reading chair there. He tears his eyes from the books and sees the Beast is regarding him with what must be a genuine smile on his lips and in his eyes. Upon their eyes meeting, the Captain hurriedly schools his expression and merely says, "I saw that you were reading Don Quixote; I thought you might choose another when you are finished. This is my private library, but you are welcome to it any time you choose."

Thomas drops his eyes to the desk, where his hand smooths itself across the wood. "You have my gratitude. It has been...some time since I have had the leisure of reading."

"Well, good night to you." The Beast Captain backs out of the cabin and Thomas hears the door at the far end open and shut. 

His private library, he said? A cultured Beast, then. The unanswered questions about him abound. 

 

Thomas spends the next day, as the previous few, reading and lazing on deck, though he's relaxed of the tension of the unknown since his conversation with his...host? Or captor? The Beast Captain himself joins him for supper again and Thomas is determined to draw him into conversation. 

"So, the Cerberus?" Thomas lifts an eyebrow at his dinner companion. "Are you guarding the gates of Hell?" He smiles ruefully. "I suppose nothing should surprise me anymore after a talking beast and a ship that sails itself."

A corner of the Beast's mouth lifts in amused acknowledgement that turns wry. "No man who enters Hell may leave. But that's of Man's own doing, it needs no guard."

"I believe that depends on your definition of Hell."

Flint tilts his head. "My lord?"

Thomas starts at the address; he hadn't told him his background, had he? Flint looks at him inquisitively but doesn't seem to think he's said anything amiss. Thomas moves on. "Is Hell a place, or a state of mind? If it's a place, you can escape. I have. If it's a state of mind...that's up for further debate."

Flint leans across the table, intent. "Have you read Milton's Paradise Lost?"

"I read the first volume, but never had the chance to read the others."

Flint nods in the direction of the library. "The complete work is on the shelves." He hesitates, then continues with the words on his tongue. "I'd be interested to hear your thoughts on it." 

Thomas smiles at him. He wonders if the Beast knew there was nothing else that could have recommended his character to Thomas so completely.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Was describing a gimbaled table necessary? No, but I loved the wonder it inspired in me once and I wanted to give that to Thomas.


	3. Chapter 3

Weeks pass on board the Cerberus. Thomas throws himself into the library of books and though there are moments of tedium, he finds himself thriving. When he undresses for bed, he finds that he can no longer see his ribs. Thinking of the sumptuous meals in the mess, and sometimes the furtive ones in his cabin, he's not surprised. The shaving glass shows his cheeks filling out and there is colour to them as well, from the combination of sun and salt air he exposes himself to. 

His constitution is stronger too. His stomach is less likely to reject rich foods, his head less likely to spin without cause, his body less likely to drive him to his bed with sheer exhaustion of movement. 

While his body has put weight back on after Bethlem, one thing that has not returned is muscle. Not that he had had much in London, but the occasional fencing lesson had kept him in shape. He wishes now to build on what he has, gaining some measure of strength and endurance. He starts an exercise regimen that he practices before dawn or in the empty time before dinner. Self-consciously, he only practices when he is alone on deck. 

The compass shows them traveling south and Thomas believes it. The heat and humidity had parched him at first, but he finds he is adapting. And if he dresses less formally on deck, the Captain doesn't appear to notice. 

One hot day with not even a cloud in the sky to break the sunlight, Thomas stands by the rail and gazes wistfully at the waters below. He hears, more than sees, Flint approach the rail. "I wonder how the water feels," Thomas muses. "I learned to swim in a pond out in the country, but there was no swimming in London. 

"Would you like to?" Flint asks after a moment. 

Thomas turns to him then. "Could I?"

"There should be a reef nearby enough that we can drop anchor on. I don't imagine your pond taught you the endurance to swim ashore from there." Flint's rare humour comes out and it makes Thomas smile. 

"Even if I had that endurance then," Thomas murmurs, looking back into the water, "I would certainly lack it now." He feels Flint's eyes on him but does not turn to meet them. He has sensed the great beast wanting, but not daring, to ask him for his story and circumstance. Maybe he will tell him, someday. Maybe he will ask him for his own. 

After a moment's bated silence between them, Flint turns moves away from the rail. "I'll find you that reef, then."

Thomas waits at the rail, barely daring to hope, until nearly an hour hence, when he hears the chain of the anchor start to pay out in the bow of the ship. The water is nearly green now, no longer the dark blue of the deep. James had described these differences to him, long ago. 

Flint is suddenly next to him again, having moved silently despite his size. He nods towards the water. "Now's your chance."

It does look so inviting. Thomas removes his boots and then pulls his shirt over his head. 

An intake of breath and then a sound Thomas has never heard before. His neck prickles and his spine stiffens in response. Turning his head slowly, he sees the Beast Captain's eyes fixed on his back. His lip is curled and Thomas realizes that he's growling, low and dangerous. Thomas turns around fully now and takes a few slow steps back. 

Flint raises his eyes to Thomas'. "Who– no. Forget it." With that, he stalks away. Thomas is left staring after him, waiting for his heart to beat at its accustomed rate. 

He then shakes his head and turns back to the welcoming sea. Something catches his eye, in the way things do on this ship when they appear out of thin air. He turns to find it and sees a rope ladder leading over the side. "That answers that question, I suppose. I only wish–" and then he laughs. Beside the ladder is a chunk of what can only be soap. Ah, to be bathe out of something other than a bucket!

The water is warm, he knows, but compared to the humid air it is cool enough to be refreshing. He swims a few strokes this way and that, eager to stretch out his body in a way that shipboard living simply does not accommodate. He rubs the soap into his body and hair and sighs in relief. He floats on his back and stares up at the clear blue sky. 

His eyes tend towards the ship and he sees Flint at the rail. He inclines his body to tread water upright. Incongruously, the Beast Captain's hand rests on a pistol. 

His sharp eyes catch where Thomas is looking and his stony face softens. "You have nothing to fear from me, but I am not the only dangerous beast in or on the ocean." Thomas is minded of the stories he has heard of sharks and sea monsters and looks about himself. "Don't worry," he assures Thomas, "that's why I have this. It reaches where my claws cannot."

Thomas smiles up at him. "I thank you. Are you my guardian, then?" 

What openness lay on Flint's face is shuttered away in an instant. Stiffly he says, "If I am, then I've done a piss poor job of it so far." 

Thomas understands the conversation to be over and begins to swim again. He will truly never understand what will set the captain off at any time. 

Thomas dries in the sun, stretched out on the foredeck, still in only his breeches. It feels decadent and wonderful. He would take care to not burn, but by whatever magic, the ship seems to erect a canvas sunshade any time he has been in the sun overlong. He feels a bit like one of the London ladies always under a parasol. 

Over dinner that night, Thomas thanks Flint heartily for the occasion to swim. He looks pleased and rumbles, "Any time you wish it, just tell me." 

He then reaches further down the table and pulls towards them a bottle of dark glass. He pours red liquid into first Thomas' glass and then his own. Thomas sniffs it and hums. How long has it been since he has had a good madeira?

Flint finishes his in one draught and then pours another. Looking in the glass, not at Thomas, he asks, "Who, or what, made those marks on your back?"

The growl, earlier, becomes clear. "I wasn't aware I had any. I imagine they are likely the touch of restraint, whip, crop, and such instruments as they used where I had been." He wonders if Flint has noticed the marks of restraint and blade on his wrists, but he has kept his sleeves permanently down for that reason and he thinks they have gone unremarked. 

"Where was that?"

"The Royal Hospital at Bethlem. Or Bedlam, if you've heard popular accounts of the hospital for the criminally insane." He strives to keep his voice even, but he feels his body drawing in on itself against his will and his breath quickening. 

Flint's eye, as usual, misses nothing and he stands abruptly. "Take your cup," he orders, grabbing the bottle. "We can talk up top." Thomas nods and follows him. 

Flint comes to stand against the rail while Thomas seats himself on the stairs up to the quarterdeck. Having lacked fresh air and natural light in Bethlem, he is already breathing easier with the salt air breezing past and the moonlight bright upon the water and the Beast Captain's face. 

"Would you tell me your story?" Flint asks cautiously. 

"If you'll tell me yours," Thomas bargains. 

"I will tell as much as I am able." Thomas hears evasion, but figures that this is the best he can expect. 

"My story begins and ends with two of the most dangerous areas to dabble in, Captain Flint. Love and politics. My politics were not theirs and I loved a man. These transgressions made me a marked man to such powerful men as my father, the Fourth Earl of Ashbourne. He had me committed for these...criminal inclinations, in Bethlem. There, they treat noblemen and common men the same there– that is, not like men at all. Like..."

"Like beasts?" Flint finishes, baring his teeth in a fanged grin. 

"Rather like, yes. Though you demonstrate more human qualities than either patient or staff. I was a guest of their hospitality for seven years and with what you saw today, I think I do not need to explain their preferred courses of treatment." In the moonlight, Flint's green eyes close in pain shared. A curious thing to see on the face of the supernatural beast or a common kidnapper, Thomas thinks, though an odd guilt follows immediately at denigrating him thusly. 

"But you were released?"

"Of a sort. Someone in the family, certainly not my father, must have felt guilt enough to pull me from the hospital. To my understanding, there is a "restorative work camp" in the colonies, designed to rehabilitate and remove from view criminal or merely inconvenient members of the upper class. I was bound there when you boarded the ship."

Flint is silent for a moment. "I hope I am the least trying of your options."

"I cannot fault the company nor the library," Thomas agrees, smiling up at him. "As for the rest...I wonder." His voice grows quiet and his eyes slide away. 

"Wonder what?"

"It's of no consequence."

"Your lover, he never tried to free you?"

"I bid him save himself. For my sake. I understand my father had several men escort him to a ship bound for the colonies. The ship never arrived where bound. He is dead and I found myself quite alone in the world." Again, he tries to keep emotion from his voice but keeping tears from his eyes is a more difficult undertaking. The madeira has helped dull emotion, but he will never be over the loss of James, either from his life or from the world. He seeks instead to change the subject while he recovers. "You promised me your own tale?"

The beast sighs like a gale and turns into the wind. Thomas sees it ruffle his hair. "I would remind you first that, as I promised, I will never cause you any harm. Before I looked like this, I was a pirate of Nassau. I killed many men, but never those who weren't seeking to kill me and mine." His eyes seemed to plead for understanding. "Then one night, I came upon a man I had known in my previous life. And I killed him in cold blood. It was a just killing and I will never feel a drop of regret or remorse for it. But I was too far gone and I cut down every soul on that ship. I slaughtered them like a beast enraged." Thomas can hear the rage even now, simmering. "So, that night, a beast I became." He spreads his great paws beseechingly. "I have been as you see me ever since."

He looks lonely, but his eyes glimmer slightly when he raises them to meet Thomas'. Thomas isn't sure what to make of it. 

They both fall into silence, companionable, not strained. Though the wooden step digs into his back, Thomas leans back and takes in the diamond stars on black velvet. He had never taken the time to appreciate them on his visits to the country. London is, of course, too full of fog and smog to make much out. But here... It's stunning. He thinks regretfully of the Royal Society lectures he should have attended when he had the chance. 

"Which one is Orion?" he asks. He only half expects an answer, but then the Beast Captain raises an arm and points to a corner of the sky. "There. See the four points of his limbs and the three stars of his belt. From there hangs his short-sword. You know the constellation, but not to recognize it?"

"It was his favorite," Thomas says softly. 

In lieu of a response, Flint continues, "His limbs are Betelgeuse, Bellatrix, Rigel, and Saiph..."

The cool sea air and the husk of Flint's voice pull at Thomas' limbs and mind until he finds Morpheus' embrace.


	4. Chapter 4

Thomas wakes the next morning in his cabin, which he doesn't remember having reached, with a needling headache but a brighter outlook. He had kept his mouth shut in Bethlem about James and there was no need to explain his pains to those who also bore them, so to tell someone else has eased his mind in a way he hasn't felt since he had James' ear. 

After a ravenous breakfast, he slips into the library. As usual, the sight of it fills him with quiet joy. Since the Beast Captain first showed it to him, he has reread some of his old favorites and discovered new novelists and philosophers. The only thing he has looked for and not found is Marcus Aurelius, though he's not quite sure he could bring himself to read it without James. 

Now, he runs his finger along the spines until it snags. The sonnets of Shakespeare. Oh he has missed the feel of Shakespeare on his tongue. 

On deck, he finds his clump of pillows where they usually lie on the quarterdeck on sunny days such as this. He settles into them, but before he opens the book, he seeks to test himself. 

Imagining James as he had once been with Thomas reciting it for him, half-dressed and at ease in bed, he begins aloud:

"A woman's face with nature's own hand painted,  
Hast thou, the master mistress of my passion;  
A woman's gentle heart, but not acquainted with– with– damn!"

 

"Thomas?" Flint's voice calls up, concerned, from the bottom of the stairs and he realizes he may have spoken louder than intended. 

"I'm well. It's only... I used to know much of Shakespeare's sonnets by heart and I find it has slipped or been driven away over time."

"What one are you having trouble with?"

"Twenty. 'Till Nature, as she wrought thee, fell a-doting'."

"'And by addition me of thee defeated'." Thomas is surprised at first, that a beast should know Shakespeare by heart, but then the book is his to start with. "It should be in that book. You have time to relearn it, and the patience, I'm sure."

Thomas gives in and finds Twenty. He reads aloud, as he did with his tutors as a boy:

"A woman's face with nature's own hand painted,  
Hast thou, the master mistress of my passion;  
A woman's gentle heart, but not acquainted  
With shifting change, as is false women's fashion:  
An eye more bright than theirs, less false in rolling,  
Gilding the object whereupon it gazeth;  
A man in hue all hues in his controlling,  
Which steals men's eyes and women's souls amazeth.  
And for a woman wert thou first created;  
Till Nature, as she wrought thee, fell a-doting,  
And by addition me of thee defeated,  
By adding one thing to my purpose nothing.  
But since she prick'd thee out for women's pleasure,  
Mine be thy love and thy love's use their treasure."

Thomas feels greatly at peace, having said the words aloud. Looking downship, he finds that Flint has drawn closer to the quarterdeck and is unashamedly watching him. Impulsively, Thomas asks, "Would you like to hear another one?" 

The railing under the beast's hand trembles in his grip and when he replies, "Please," it sounds more like a plea than a politeness. 

Thomas goes on to read the next. And the next. And between sonnets, they discuss what one means. Thomas is surprised to find that Flint had once seen a production of Macbeth and has strong opinions on honor and guilt. 

They debate and discuss, not wanting to let silence fall, until Thomas' stomach turns most impatiently. He flushes at the rudeness and interrupts their conversation to ask, "Shall we adjourn this conversation until after lunch?" 

"For tomorrow, perhaps. I have neglected my own work this morning." Then he's crossing the deck to Thomas and offers a hand. Thomas studies him for a moment before placing his hand upon it and letting Flint pull him to his feet. Flint retains his hand a few seconds too long for propriety, than drops it like the lead overboard and stalks below. 

Their days begin to fall into pattern after that. In the morning, Thomas reads his current book aloud and knows that before long, the Beast Captain will be there, listening, offering discussion. In the evening, they are freer in their words over supper. Thomas has been coaxing from Flint his pirate stories, of killer storms and beach wrecks, of killing tyrants and freeing the terrorized and impressed. While never addressed head on, Thomas gathers that Flint has followed some sort of honor and morality code. Sometimes he hunches over the table and describes acts that would make Thomas recoil, but Thomas is well aware that the Captain watches his face at every moment for a reaction and he schools his expression to not shame him into silence. 

Sometimes Thomas tells stories of Bethlem to alleviate the strain on Flint. More often then not, he keeps it to himself, but even when his most reprehensible actions and words slip out, the Beast listens with compassion, not censure. The weight on his shoulders lifts, piece by piece. 

But after all that, he's not sure if it is their mornings or evenings that reveal more about themselves to each other. Flint has the mind of a philosopher and a tactician and Thomas leans more of it with every debate. 

Sometimes their recitations are just that, a man reading a book aloud while the other listens quietly. Once, Thomas thinks the great terror of the seas has fallen asleep on deck to the poetry of John Donne. Thomas has always found Donne to soothe his own soul and he pauses after one to regard the soul before him fondly. He wonders if it is right to care for him. He wonders on his own morality.

Occasionally, Flint reads as well. His deep bass is sonorous in the reading and Thomas is surprised to find it pleasant to his ear. It no longer inspires the fear or thoughts of his alien nature as it did upon first meeting. 

Thomas falls asleep to it once. He slips into slumber, nested in his pillows on the quarterdeck and his dream is sweet. 

_James is sitting on the desk in Thomas' study, his stiff naval coat removed and his sleeves pushed up over his forearms. Thomas has caught him in the act of loosening the thong around his hair and James smiles knowingly as it tumbles around his shoulder. He knows what his hair unbound inspires in Thomas. He pulls his white shirt over his head, revealing an abdomen and chest of muscle that stretches with his movement._

_Thomas moves to the desk and James widens the space between his knees to allow for Thomas to stand between them. He himself must be without his shirt, for even before his lips, James kisses his clavicle. And nibbles at the base of his neck. Then lifts his head to pour his mouth over Thomas', lips and tongue coy even as he presses a hand to the bulge in Thomas' breeches._

_"James!" he groans, in surprise and arousal—_

—and the sound of the name aloud is enough to wake him from the dream. 

His eyes have flown open and he hears footsteps retreating on the deck below. Thomas drops his head into his hands and laughs deprecatingly at himself. He's started to grow hard, but he won't touch it now. Instead, he rises and moves down to the middle deck where he embarks on another round of his exercise and strength building regimen. He tries to forget. 

The Captain does not join him for dinner, as has been their routine, and the table is too quiet. Thomas feels faintly ashamed that he should have discomfited him so. He supposes he could walk up to the door at the end of the passageway and knock to make his apology, but as he has done despite no instruction, he leaves it be. 

Instead, after dinner he does not retire to his cabin but emerges on deck to watch the brilliant sunset fade into night. 

It's full dark, with no moon to lend its light, by the time the Beast Captain comes on deck. Thomas cannot see him but for a moving patch of darker than night, but he hears his footfall. 

He calls out, "Captain?"

"...Thomas."

He joins him at the rail, but since he cannot see his face anyway, he stares into the dull shine of water. "I had hoped to find you here. I must apologize for so rudely falling asleep during your reading, but even more so for having discomfited you. I'm afraid that, unconsciously, I may have said something..."

"It's of no matter," Flint replies gruffly, sounding uncomfortable with the topic. "It's only natural of men, is it not?" A beat of silence falls between them. "Has it been long? Forgive me— I shouldn't have asked."

"It's quite alright," Thomas assures him. "I don't mind. Your answer is yes. Roughly seven years, I'd been in Bethlem. Plus, I suppose, the months I've spent here. And a day. That's how long it has been."

A sideways glance shows the great shaggy head hung low, but remaining silent. After a time, Thomas asks, hesitant, "I have no right to ask and you are well within your rights to refuse such an impertinent question but...do you still feel? As a man does?"

The Beast responds, so quietly that Thomas almost misses it, "Yes. I do." His voice is so sick with sadness and loneliness that Thomas flinches. 

Casting a last look at the starry sky, he says, "I should get my sleep. Goodnight, Captain." He walks over the door inside and turns back to say, softly, "I'm sorry."

The silhouette says nothing in return. 

The next night, Flint accompanies him at dinner once more, but Thomas sees little of him during the day. Even during the morning hours in which they usually read together. He tries to tell himself that it doesn't bother him, but he misses the pessimistic remarks that temper his usually idealistic interpretations. 

Three days pass with no sign of Flint on the quarterdeck. Thomas throws himself increasingly into his exercise regimen, pushing himself so far that he has little room in his head for distraction and he exhausts himself into bed. 

Flint can't fail to notice when Thomas dozes off at the supper table one night. He awakens to a large hand on his shoulder and a voice in his ear calling: "Thomas?" He jolts from sleep and, looking in the direction of the hand, finds the Captain bent towards him, brow furrowed with concern. 

"My apologies, that was incredibly rude of me. I guess I should go to my cabin before I embarrass myself again."

"It's all right," Flint waves off, backing away and resuming his seat across the table. "But are— are you alright?"

He sounds worried and Thomas rushes to ease his mind. "I'm quite alright, thank you. Only I've been tiring myself with work on deck." Flint says nothing, only lifts a eyebrow, but Thomas doesn't explain further. Instead, he eases himself from the table and bids the Beast Captain goodnight. 

The next day, Thomas is propped up on his hands on deck, raising and lowering himself over the decking, when he raises his head and sees two great paws a little ways away from him. He startles into falling flat on his stomach, then rearranges himself into sitting, with a laugh. 

The Captain is regarding him with a slightly bewildered expression. "What are you doing?"

"I'm accustoming my arms to lifting my body weight. I came out of Bethlem with very little strength of arm. With little else to do, I hoped to work on that."

"Do they usually prescribe this course on a rocking ship?"

Thomas laughs. "No, I don't think they expected that particular level of difficulty. I'm man enough to admit I've been thrown off balance enough to roll into the scuppers."

The Captain snorts a laugh. "Carry on then."

Thomas lingers upright for a moment, watching Flint cross the deck to fuss with a line on one of the rope ladders into the shrouds. Then he does turn over and carry on. He has only done a few press-ups when he hears his name. Looking up m he sees the Captain motioning him over to where he stands. There are now two ropes hanging to the deck from above their heads now. 

"Sit between them," Flint orders. Thomas does so. "Now grab the lines above your head and hoist yourself up." 

He feels the burn in his back and arms as he follows these instructions. 

"A shipboard strengthening maneuver I was taught as a boy. You might find this gets you tossed around less often."

"Thank you, Captain."

Flint doesn't move on; he seems to consider saying something. Voice slow and tentative, he eventually suggests, "I could—if you want, that is—teach you swordplay. It stimulates your entire body and you could learn to defend yourself at the same time." He looks down, shyly? "You might also find it intellectually stimulating. I always did."

Thomas smiles up at him. "I would be honored if you would teach me. I'm afraid I have only practiced gentlemen's fencing before."

Flint meets his eyes again and chuckles. "I imagine you'll find it somewhat different. I'll meet you here mid-afternoon tomorrow?"

"I'll see you then." He hesitates then forges ahead. "Perhaps I'll start the Iliad tomorrow morning in preparation. Would you care to join me?"

"I would." His voice is warm and it warms Thomas in turn. 

And when Thomas climbs the steps to the quarterdeck after breakfast the next morning, Flint is there waiting.

* * *

"Again."

Thomas raises his sword in the guard position at the growl. For nearly two weeks now, they've been practicing the sword on alternating days (to give Thomas' body time to adjust, Flint says). He's doing better now than he was in the first days, when the sword was so unfamiliar in his hand and the Beast could swat away any strike with ease. As it is, he hasn't come close to landing a strike yet. And he doesn't let it speak to his pride that his opponent is clearly tempering his arm. He suspects his strength has scaled up from human with his size and Thomas would not likely be able to handle even a human pirate yet. 

Flint moves forward and Thomas blocks his sword high, then low, then tries to snake his blade in the middle. The Captain laughs as he blocks and steps back to resume. Flint is a different person with a sword in his hand: eyes alight, open with his humour, willing to flirt and taunt. It took Thomas aback, the first session that he had stopped being so ever careful with him, but he enjoys seeing his spirit now. 

The flat of Flint's blade slaps the outside of Thomas thigh and he jumps back, winces. He would have sworn that strike was coming down into his shoulder and had raised his own blade accordingly. "Don't watch the sword, watch me." He has said that more than a few times since they had begun. "My arms and chest can move without the sword, but the sword cannot move without them. Observe the impetus, not the instrument." 

Thomas wordlessly salutes him with his sword and the Beast bares his teeth in a grin. He steps back and it's Thomas' turn to come for him. 

Thomas would never describe the Beast as graceful, but there's a certain brutal fluidity to his movements that Thomas admires. In the seconds before he strikes, anyway. 

Although Flint doesn't hold back his strength, he wins every engagement easily. The first time Thomas makes the mistake of going hilt to hilt with him, he winds up sitting on the deck with his sword some number of yards away. 

But for a few seconds, he had been pressed against the length of Flint's body, had felt its heat and smelled its musk and exertion had not been the cause of Thomas' sudden lightheadedness. An unsurprising reaction, given that he had not touched another man in seven years. That was certainly the reason for it. 

Realizing that the Beast is looking down on him worriedly, he pulls his thoughts together. "Did you do that with simple force or is there a trick to it? Can you teach me?" 

Flint grins and offers him a hand to pull him to his feet. 

Slowly over the course of his tutelage, Flint teaches him not pure swordplay, but the tricks and cheats to fight dirty. Thomas fervently hopes he won't have to fight for his life, but no knowledge is not worth the learning. 

He finds that the muscles in his arms are becoming more defined and the footwork back and forth, round and round is showing its effect on his legs as well. Flint offhandedly shows him more of his shipboard strengthening tricks and he tries them on their days of rest. 

While he'll never match the Beast's brute strength or the reach of his arm, Thomas increasingly finds that he has the advantage in speed. He can dance out of the way and lunge into Flint's guard on occasion. The first time he sneaks his blade to Flint's neck, the Captain laughs with joy and salutes him. "I'm at your mercy," he says with mirth and Thomas hopes no blush stains his cheeks further. 

Swordplay is...intimate. More so than the cool, distant fencing of London. When you fight to kill, or not die, you need passion and Flint exhorts him to feel it if he's going to fight to the best of his ability. So as passion is coursing through his blood, he must be intimately aware of all of Flint's body. It's a heady combination and he understands now the post-battle passions of the histories. 

 

* * *

A turning point comes during one of their mock duels, two months later, by which time Thomas has become proficient with the blade. He still loses nearly every time, but he thinks that the Beast is holding back less of his strength than when they started and he considers that a victory in its own right. 

He's slow to a block and Flint's sword bites into his thigh. 

Thomas staggers as a wash of red falls over his eyes. "Thomas!" the Captain cries out. Thomas grits his teeth against the pain and executes a move, disarming Flint and toppling him over. 

Thomas laughs at the incredulous expression on Flint's face. He laughs hard and long until he thinks he's perhaps in some state of shock. 

"That was cheating," Flint growls, getting to his feet. 

"You taught me to use any weakness or advantage against my opponent," he retorts. 

"Come on." Suddenly the Beast's arm is under his shoulder and he's being steered to the quarterdeck steps. He lowers himself to sit and Flint kneels before him. 

Thomas doesn't think he sees a blade, but there's a tearing of cloth at his thigh to expose the cut. "Jesus, fuck," Flint swears. "I am so sorry, Thomas, you have to believe me, I thought you'd be able to block it. I truly mean you no harm." Green mottled eyes stare up at him, wide with horror and remorse. 

Thomas lays a hand on the silky mane on the crown of his head. He's well aware that this is his first time touching the Beast unprompted but his head is spinning and he can't bring himself to care. It's rather flattering how concerned the Captain is for him. 

"It's shallow, but not small. It'll bandage up itself, but let me clean it first." Flint grabs a bottle that Thomas doesn't think was there a minute ago. "This will hurt," he cautions. And pours pungent rum over the wound. 

Fire bursts from his leg. Thomas shouts and his hands clench, one of them pulling hard in the Beast's hair. Slowly the fire banks and Thomas forces his hands open. 

"Apologies, Captain," he says sheepishly. 

"You have nothing to apologize for. I was careless." 

Thomas unscrews his eyes and is stunned at the genuine worry in Flint's eyes. It speaks to a depth of feeling Thomas had not known the presence of. 

He lowers his hands to his lap. "I'm fine, my friend. Truly, I am."

For Flint is his friend, isn't he? They had an inauspicious beginning, but they've come to know each other through their past traumas and tragedies. Over discussions of literature and philosophy and poetry. 

A furred hand touches his. "Let's give it a week before you work that leg again. If you don't wish to continue the swords, you don't have to."

"Don't be foolish. It's a shallow wound; you've seen proof that I've had worse." He smiles fondly at Flint's bent head, their hands still in contact, and he realizes with a start that maybe the depth of emotion isn't on Flint's part but his own. Flint's is not the body of a man, but his mind is and it's an exceptional one. He has the morality and honor of a man, a good one (piracy and kidnapping aside). 

Delicately, he pulls his hands back with the excuse of examining his leg. "I think I probably ought to lay down. If you'll excuse me."

Rather than this excusing Thomas from Flint's confusing presence, the Beast pulls him upright with an arm under his and helps him inside to his cabin. 

"Thank you, I'll be alright from here," Thomas says once they reach the door. His leg jolts with walking, but the walk to his berth isn't difficult. He sits on the bed, ready to pull off his shoes, but notices that Flint is still hovering at the entrance to his cabin. 

"I never meant to hurt you," he says, plaintively. His phrasing is odd, sounding more appropriate for a great existential injury than a simple training accident, but Thomas wants to reassure him. 

"It was an accident. I don't blame you, but I'll forgive you anyway."

The Captain nods and closes the door behind him as he goes. 

Thomas frees his feet from the heavy boots and doesn't bother to change from his blood stained trousers before laying back. 

The lights douse themselves and he whispers into the black, "What has happened to my life since I lost you, James? What is happening now?" But James is dead and the universe holds no answers for him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Why yes, I did choose that particular sonnet for a reason.


	5. Chapter 5

Thomas' wound from the incident had been sewn and bandaged while he slept and he wakes to find it changed every few days. He walks with no limp and doesn't even feel pained, unless he brushes up against something. 

He still reads on deck, carefully keeping his voice neutral if Flint has joined him, but he doesn't take back up any practice of the body, even once the bandage disappears with barely a scar. He says no more about swordplay and neither does the Captain. But for that, Thomas treats him with the same friendly mien and confidence they have shared the past several months. After all, as a titled invert in London, he knows well how to hide any stronger emotions. 

And he still feels them, even after the shock of injury has faded. He feels warm and filled with quiet joy when the Captain is around. It reminds him of how his affection for James grew over weeks across his desk. 

But something about this intrigue feels empty, painful. Thomas wonders if he doesn't have a heart to give away, not after James drowned with it carried within his breast. He had been destroyed, the day Peter Ashe told him. He had had a great love and his stubbornness had doomed them, sent his lover to his watery grave. Maybe it achieved what the treatments of Bethlem had not: breaking him of his ability to love. 

He craves time and space with which to parse his emotions and in a way, discovering these feelings for his Captain seems to break some sort of spell on Thomas. When they anchor for a swim, he gazes longingly at the shore. He remembers the feeling of dry land underfoot. He imagines what the soft white sand would feel like. He longs for other people to talk to; part of his gratitude for his taking by the Cerberus was the opportunity to have someone always within reach, after the solitary confinement of Bethlem where his only company was madmen and sadists. 

His closeness with his captor starts to chafe, like restraints on his wrist. As much as he enjoys their mornings and suppers together, he needs time and distance. And those are two things in short supply when one can cross the length from the forecastle to the Captain's cabin in mere minutes, with nowhere else to go. 

When he daydreams now, he relishes the idea of walking as far as he can on a deserted beach and seeing no one. Of walking through a crowd and knowing no one. Of being anonymous. Of being someone else. Of starting over. 

Is freedom worth the loss of sumptuous food, scenery right out of the most vivid paintings, a library broad and comprehensive, the friendship and confidence of a good man? A foolish question, he scolds himself. There is nothing worth the sacrifice of freedom.

* * *

Thomas has loved being on deck for twilight. The smell of it, the colors, the rising shimmer of the stars. It's a romantic time of day, but Thomas feels only trepidation this night as he stands shoulder to shoulder with Flint at the rail. He's been ten months on the Cerberus and never considered what he's about to ask. So he has no way of knowing if it will be granted. 

"I think it is time that I leave." 

The great shaggy head lifts with a snap to stare at Thomas. "What do you mean?"

"You must not think I don't appreciate that you saved me from a life of imprisonment and enslavement. I do, and I am grateful to your generosity and I daresay friendship. But, though we sail where the wind takes us, this ship is no less a prison when I cannot leave it." He nearly regrets the words, seeing pain flash across Flint's face, but he presses on. "Even a gilded cage is still a cage."

"I'd thought...that you could be happy here."

"I am, I have had happiness and peace in equal measure, but does man not always yearn to be on the other side of any door? I used to have no doors barred to me, I need to live that way again." He tilts his head, meeting Flint's green eyes directly. He hadn't planned on such an offer, but it would be churlish of him to not make it. "You could come with me. On land. Carve out a fresh start from the fertile land of the colonies. You need not fear the land."

Flint doesn't flinch. "You may have forgotten, or chosen to overlook that I am a beast, but I can assure you the rest of the world will not. I fear land? You have it backwards; the land fears me." 

Though his voice is soft and even, it starts to grow in intensity and conviction. "There, they paint the world full of shadows and then tell their children to stay close to the light. Their light, their reason, their judgements, because in the darkness there be dragons. But it isn’t true. 

Beseechingly, he insists, "We can prove that it isn’t true. In the dark there is discovery, there is possibility, there is freedom in the dark when someone has illuminated it. 

"They painted me a monster. You too. This ship, even if it's a prison, has a light that burns away the shadows and we are illuminated. You who have known no darkness now seeks to extinguish that light. Can you live with that?"

Pain is written across his face, his eyes, and tears at Thomas' insides, even more so when he asks plaintively, "You could know love here, Thomas. I love you with all of my black heart. I had hoped– could that be enough to stay? Could you find it in your heart to love a beast?"

Thomas feels as if he's been carved from stone, so frozen is he in body and mind. "You are my dearest friend, so please believe me that I am pained to say no. Love is a fire that consumed me and burnt my world down around my ears. The only spark that I could have kindled has long since died. But I leave not to escape you; I will miss you. I leave only to find myself, once more in the world of men. I have never considered you my jailer, Captain, but I would like to be freed."

Flint doubles over at the rail, cowering in on himself like a wounded animal. Then without a word or once more meeting Thomas' eyes, he leaves. The hatch slams behind him with finality. Thomas only sits still on the bench, pretending that he is alright. But the stars have turned cold overhead and he is not alright. 

He does not sleep for some time. He cannot pretend to not hear the crash of broken wood and smashed glass from the nearby cabin. He worries not for himself, but for the beast grieving mere meters away from his door. 

When Thomas awakes, he notices with some surprise the lack of forward motion through the water. After dressing and passing by the hot breakfast waiting in the mess, he emerges onto deck to see a white sand beach, topped with green dunes swaying in the sea breeze. It is the closest he has seen dry land since leaving England behind. And even then he'd been under the influences of laudanum and unable to relish the sight. 

"New Providence Island." Flint's voice growls behind him. Thomas looks, but Flint will not look at him. "The closest I dare come to civilization. When the gig is launched, you will be taken to the beach. Town isn't far around that headland there."

"Thank you, Captain. I know... Well, I didn't intend to hurt you and I wish that you may find all the joy in the world. I know there are others who can return your regard with all their heart."

"Thank you, Thomas." His voice rumbles so quietly that Thomas has to strain to hear him. "But there will be no other. Not anymore." Thomas stretches out a hand to gently touch the back of Flint's. He says nothing, for what can one say to that? Thomas can never love anyone so well as James, even if his love is not of this world. 

The gig splashes into the water nearly silently beside the ship and the Beast Captain says, "Everything of yours, everything you need is in that boat. Do with it what you like."

As if speeding him on his way, the familiar rope ladder appears at the rail. 

"Thank you, Captain. And if I wish to see...the Cerberus again?" He will miss their morning readings, Flint's bottomless knowledge of the sea and her ways, even the sight of him writing his logbook by soft candlelight after supper. 

"You won't." With that, he turns and stalks away. 

Thomas sighs and climbs down the ladder into the gig. It propels itself through the water and Thomas sits up straight, watching the copper and black figure fade into the horizon. He's so wrapped up in thought that he starts when the gig slides audibly into sand. Looking about, he finds that he has arrived. 

Only now noticing the boat's contents, he sees several rucksacks. One he opens to find good clothes in. Another contains books, paper and stoppered ink, a flint and striker, and other sundries necessary to survival. His heart nearly stops when he opens the third. Gold shines where the sunlight hits it, bright as the sun itself. Gems wink from the gaps between the coins and Thomas finds it nearly impossible to lift by himself. He manages and drags it through the sand into the dunes. He removes only a handful of gold coins and a deep blue silk ribbon. Finding a likely bush, he drops to his knees and digs a hole with his own two hands until he can drop the sack in and cover it. The ribbon he ties to a branch at the base of the bush to mark its location for later. He will recover it piece by piece to not arouse suspicion. 

With the other two sacks slung on his shoulders, he makes for town.

* * *

Thomas isn't sure what he had expected from Nassau Town. Red coats are plentiful, but so are the burnt wood and signs of insurrection. Having seen, once, a hanging in London, he manages to suppress the guttural instinct at seeing a dried corpse with tattered clothes blowing in the wind by the dock. 

He finds a stable in the quieter outskirts of the town and purchases a sturdy horse with the first of his gold. The town is too noisy and his entreaties to the stable owner, as well as his discerning eye towards horseflesh, prompt the man to give him instructions inland. "Accommodations will suit you fine there," he promises Thomas with a tip of his cap. 

Thomas finds this so, with warm, cheery taverns, once the stench and noise have fallen away, and small cottages with the closest things to English gardens. One garden shows sign of overgrowth as he canters past and Thomas wheels his horse around to give it another look. A boy is playing in the trees out front and Thomas calls out to him. "My lad, do you live here?"

"No, sir, over there!" He points down the road, wide-eyed and clearly fearing censure for playing on another's property. 

"Is it for sale?"

"Reckon so. Mama could tell you!"

Thomas follows the boy back to his house, where the mother confirms it's for sale and offers to deliver him to the priest, who holds the title for it in lieu of its previous owners. By the end of the day, Thomas has bought the house and returned to it, leaving the priest agog at the gem with which he bought it. It's dusty inside, but some rough furniture remains from its previous owner. It'll need sweeping, washing, and repairs badly, but Thomas Hamilton is a name anonymous to these people of the land and that leaves the ground as good as Eden. 

Over the course of the week, Thomas rides about the island, which mostly means ferrying the remaining king's ransom back to the root cellar of his house. It worries him for some reason that the gig of silver wood still lays on the beach, but he always eventually turns his back to the sea and digs up the fortune. 

Thomas also visits Nassau, which for all its bustle is still a prosperous port for trade, on his rides for the buying of household goods and food. Likely as not, half the goods had been stolen somewhere along the way, but there is more here than he can trade for on the interior, where he has no skills to barter with. 

On one of these trips, nearly a month after Thomas arrived, he ties his horse up outside the tavern and sits at the bar for a brew. Sipping it, he surveys the tavern and sees a man holding court at a nearby table. "Gold as far as the eye can see, boys. Silver, too, and more gems then what's in the king's own 'ouse. Nassau's to be rich and we rich men with her!" The table erupts, calling out "Hear hear!" and loudly describing what they'd do with such a sum. 

A bar maid collects their empty mugs and Thomas stops her as she passes. "Your customers are in fine fettle tonight. Do they expect a sudden windfall?"

"Sir, don't you know? Governor Rogers and his men set out but three days ago to capture the Cerberus!"

Thomas laughs, despite the way his stomach turns over. "My dear, they're chasing a ghost story?"

"S'true!" she insists. "When the Governor replaced Miss Guthrie, who'd had the running of this place before, he found a chest nearly emptied, with all sorts of coin and jewels inside. How she bought her tavern and kept the pirates in line, the Governor said. She'd buy 'em off. Then," her voice drops to a conspiatorial whisper, "people started to remember. She came out of nowhere, just walked into Nassau one day and bought the place on the spot. And one cove said he remembered a man called Guthrie complaining over his drink in Philadelphia that his daughter Eleanor had been taken by a beast and he'd no heirs left! So the Governor, a clever man, figured where she'd gotten the prize. He and his men are going to get it themselves!"

"I seen the ship, see?" A bedraggled old salt listening in at the bar pipes up. "Just this week. Was my captain what reported to the Governor. Was the Cerberus, all right. Didn't even notice us. Didn't come for us, didn't run, just sat there with 'alf its sails luffing."

"An interesting story, but I'll believe it when I see it," Thomas dissembles, mind racing. "Now if you'll excuse me."

 

When he's free in the Nassau air, Thomas runs to the landing beach. He scans the horizon, as if he'd be able to see the ship. "I've no notion if you can hear me, Captain, but sail fast and sail far. There's danger here." He feels helpless. Then he turns his head away and sees silvery wood. The gig is still here. 

Thomas considers the boat for a minute or two. He dismounts and moves closer to inspect it. Then with a slap of the hand, he sends his horse off. 

He pulls the boat down to the water, ignoring the water around his boots, then stockings, then breeches. When he guesses it is deep enough, he climbs over the gunwhale into the gig. 

It bobs listlessly for a moment and Thomas urges it, "Come, take me to your master. He's in mortal danger." Sluggishly, it points out to sea. 

Thomas' trip in the gig is neither easy nor swift. The boat fights through each wave of breakers as if through mud and it wanders on its course like a drunkard. The further behind they leave land, the more the boat improves, but Thomas still worries at the difference from his last trip. 

He's been several hours in the gig when, suddenly, he whips his head around as a thunderous boom sounds across the water. Seconds later, a flash lightens the horizon and Thomas notices with dismay that it appears to be emanating from their course exactly. 

"Move, damn you," he shouts at the boat. "Help him!"

They seem to pick up speed and Thomas soon sets eye on the situation. One ship lies broadbeam to the Cerberus' bow, raking it with cannon fire whilst the other runs parallel on a course to come alongside. The Cerberus is moving sluggishly, to Thomas' astonishment. When he'd been aboard, she had flown through the water as if a wave herself. 

At Thomas' coaxing, the gig continues to pick up speed and he directs it to the side in the lee of the cannons. The bow plunges into every oncoming swell and Thomas is fully drenched, though he barely tends it a thought. Finally they're alongside and, with a prayer, Thomas takes a leap of faith from the gig to the rope ladder. His hands close desperately on the rope and he climbs aboard.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want to sincerely thank everyone who is reading and commenting on this. You guys make me smile!
> 
> Based on a couple comments, I'm debating adding a Flint POV bit, so I'm trying a couple things out. Feel free to offer questions, comments, philosophies on this.
> 
> But guys
> 
> guys
> 
> just you wait for next week's chapter. just you wait.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay. Here it is. The big one. 
> 
> And you're getting it on the early side because it's Black Friday and I'm living that retail worker life. This Thanksgiving I'm thankful for all you beautiful readers (and writers and artists and all out there). Enjoy!

Captain Flint is nowhere to be seen on deck. The lines are flapping from their cleats and the loose ends piled carelessly on the deck. It was as if all hands just...gave up. 

"Captain?" He keeps low as he moves across the deck and once goes sprawling as a cannonball finds its mark on the side of the ship. Shaking his head to try to clear the ringing, he continues below. 

The ship continues to shiver around him and he braces himself against the bulkheads as he makes his way through the belly of the ship. He's not at the tables but...there. A glimmer of light at the very end of the passageway. He calls again, "Captain?" and carefully pushes the door open. 

Boards lie across a wall of windows, but daylight spills through the upper row left bare. It illuminates walls full of books, but Thomas' attention is drawn to an ornate desk in the center of the cabin. The great beast has just lifted his head from where it had been pillowed on his arms. "Thomas?" Flint murmurs. There's a look in his sleepy green eyes that says the mind within isn't sure of reality without. As if what's before it couldn't possibly be true, despite all hope. Something, something of it tugs at Thomas' memory, but this is not the time nor the place to try and grasp it. 

He crouches at Flint's side and lays a hand on his arm. "The ship is under attack. They mean to kill you and take the ship's spoils. We must fight or all is lost. I would not lose you, my dear. Not to the grasping men of that world. You were right, I have never been one to hide in their shadows. I will know no shame, but I need you beside me if we are to see tomorrow's light."

Thomas feels muscle clench under his hand and gradually Captain Flint sits up straight. He turns to look into Thomas' face and Thomas is unsure what he sees, but his face softens. He tilts his head and one side of his mouth curls up in a wry smile. 

Another cannonball finds its mark on the ship and somewhere, wood cracks. The Beast Captain thrusts back his chair and his arm is pulled from Thomas' grasp. "Come," he orders. He stalks over to a chest and pulls out several pistols and a sword. He tosses the blade and a pistol to Thomas, who catches them neatly, then strides out of the cabin. 

Thomas only catches up to him on deck. He's standing tall and proud on the quarterdeck, surveying the situation from his vantage point with a pistol in each hand. His lips move in what is unmistakably command, as Thomas sees the ship pulling itself together as he watches. They're picking up speed, too, but the Governor's ship is close enough that Thomas sees boarders at the ready. 

"Thomas!" Flint calls. The Captain meets him by the rail and, unexpectedly, lays one of his hands on Thomas' cheek. "The gig is below. Get in and it will bear you to safety. And then on to land, if I do not find you first."

Thomas' breath quickens. "I'll not leave you." 

"I hadn't thought you a fool," he scolds. "Get in; this is my fight and your life is more than should be lost here."

Thomas thinks suddenly of the night James stood up to his father for him. _'You're a good man. More people should say that. And someone should be willing to defend it.'_ He blinks back the memory and says, "Your life is worth more, as well. And I'm willing to defend that."

Flint growls impatiently as Thomas hears a cry across the water, "Boarding party away!" 

"Then stay on the quarterdeck," he capitulates, with a shove in the direction of the stairs. "You're less likely to be swarmed there."

Thomas follows his direction as grappling hooks fly over the rails. Then he turns back to watch the fight on the open deck. He sees now why Flint didn't take a saber of his own. He lays the pistols aside and stands at the ready. Claws that glint of hardened steel extend from his fingers and as the first boarder approaches, he lashes out. Blood flies like red rain and the man's body falls. 

Only a few men try for Thomas on the quarterdeck, but it keeps him busy enough to lose track of the fight below. He cuts the first one down on the port stairs themselves, but another had come around to the starboard. Thomas engages with him and at the first shivering clash of blades, he murmurs a prayer thanking Flint for his sword lessons and recommending his safety unto God. 

His swordtip sticks in the man's leg and Thomas pulls back and cuts him down when he stumbles back. He has no time to think of the blood spattering his clothes or that he has just taken a man's life for the first time before he moves through the motions familiar to his limbs to engage the next man. 

This one falls too, though not before scratching Thomas' arm. His eyes sweep the quarterdeck but finds no oncoming enemies, so he switches his blade to his weak hand and clasps his other hand over the wound. He feels his shirt warm where it now sticks to his arm and it hurts like the devil, but he judges the blood flow to not be immediately hazardous. 

He also takes the time to survey the lower deck. It's a horrifying sight, where men lay bleeding onto the wood and Thomas distractedly considers all the novels and poems on the glory of war. Thomas notices too that boarding ropes are suddenly separating, sending the men crawling along them plunging into the roiling water between the ships. He turns towards movement at the corner of his eye and sees a line snake around a man's ankle and haul him with a scream into the shrouds. He smiles grimly; even the ship itself is fighting back. 

But now another boarding party crosses at the rail Flint had put his back to and he is overrun. Thomas looks again and Flint is being restrained with three men on each arm and a rope looped round his neck. One man walks up and stands before him, back straight and hands clasped behind his back. 

"I'll admit I doubted the stories, but I presume you are this Beast the sailors fear." 

"Presume all you want," Flint growls. 

"Oh, I don't need much presumption. I've heard about you. I believe you were acquainted with a Miss Eleanor Guthrie? Lovely girl, very spirited. She didn't want to talk about you, but I can be persuasive." The deck rumbles as Flint growls in a rage Thomas has heard only once before. 

"But I'm remiss," the man goes on. "My name is Woodes Rogers, I'm the Governor of New Providence Island. I worked hard to get that position and still the rogue pirates who did not accept His Majesty's pardon rise against me. They are the thorn in my side and you are my deliverance."

"How am I that?"

"Miss Guthrie came to Nassau out of the blue and bought herself a tavern in pieces of gold. Even when we found her stash, she still had gold and gems to spare. If she received such largesse from you, how much gold does this ship carry? Tell me where it is and you go free. You can go back to kidnapping whoever you like."

He's a practiced liar, but Thomas hears the lie in his voice. He hopes Flint hears it too. 

"It's not here."

"What?"

"The riches this ship has accrued are buried on a hidden isle, where I can get to it and no other. Search my charts all you like; it's not even written down. And you certainly won't hear it from me."

"You will tell me, sir." His voice is quiet but menacing and Thomas feels uneasy. He's seen men like this before, with the drive of their own demons behind them and he's seen how their stories end. 

"I will not," Flint roars.

Rogers takes a step back, turns and paces the deck. "I wouldn't believe you anyway. The treasure is on this ship. Why should the guard dog be so far away from what he's guarding? And do you know the best way to make sure the guard dog doesn't bite you?"

He draws his sword and advances. He hefts it, kisses the tip to Flint's throat before pulling back to swing. Thomas sees Flint's body struggling. "Hold him still," Rogers orders. Briefly, men swarm over Flint and force him to his knees, head bowed. Rogers raises his sword. 

Thomas sees steel glinting over copper and, unbidden, his mouth opens on a scream of "JAMES!" 

He remembers like bad dreams the occasions in Bethlem in which time lost all meaning. The seconds had passed like running through water. Time feels like that again as Flint struggles to raise his head. He does not look at the men restraining him, but at Thomas, with eyes full of

Horror. 

Regret. 

Desperation. 

Guilt. 

Love. 

Oh God. His red coat the color of James' hair loose on the sheets on a lazy morning in bed. His eyes the color of James', wordlessly in love and scared of it those first few nights. His love of books. His view of the world. His rage, as the whispers had told him, as he pummeled a man who dared slander Thomas. 

James McGraw is not dead; he is alive and cursed and Thomas had rebuffed his love unawares and, with God as his witness, he will kill every man between them. 

He wonders if time has bent itself around James too, for he is still staring at Thomas and there is knowledge in his eyes. He throws his head back suddenly and _ROARS_. 

Time snaps into place one more and the sound and fury of battle once more rises around them. Thomas sees a powerful sweep of his arm clear the men to his right and, so bolstered, he throws himself down the stairs to the main deck, three steps at a time despite the ship rocking them below his feet. He shoves the first man over the rail, his scream cut off with a splash. His sword bites into the neck of the next man before him and then he's past him. 

He fights until there are no more opponents before him. Thomas sways in place, dazed. He's not even that good at fighting; he does not have years with a sword in hand behind him. But he knows that there are times when the mind and the body occupy separate planes. Imagining himself horseback in the country or sharing a meal with James whilst his body twists and curls under pelting ice water or the whistling crop. Slotting together James and he, alive, in the same place and time, whilst his arm rises and falls in unconscious motion of the sword. 

He raises his eyes and they set upon the Beast Captain straddling Rogers' chest, pummeling him into the deck. Thomas has to look away. 

When sound dies away, he looks back and sees Captain Flint—James?—sitting against the gunwhale. Bodies lie mere feet away from him, but he has sagged to the deck, staring in terror at Thomas. His black leather coat shines in a way leather ought not to and Thomas realizes it's blood. Beneath the coat, his chest heaves with labored breathing. 

He can feel the Cerberus gaining speed in the further rocking of the deck. Weapons that have fallen from struck hands slide across the wood with dull scrapes and thunks. Bullets fired from the other ship crack on wood and ping on metal but eventually the sounds grow dim until no more are fired; they are out of range. 

Thomas rises from where he had crouched to avoid the hail of bullets and advances slowly, cautiously, before sinking to his knees at the beast's side. 

"Tell me," he begs. "Tell me you are James McGraw. I'll believe you if you tell me the sky is red if you just tell me that I'm right."

A breath. Two. "I was James McGraw." He says no more, but his eyes are still on Thomas. 

Thomas lets the matter lie to touch James' cheek, where blood has already started to mat his hair. "Are you very hurt?" 

"Saber got me across my ribs. Just a scratch, but–" he took a few steadying breaths "–but nothing so bad as that."

Thomas thinks he surprises both of them when he moves to straddle his thighs. His hand stays on James' cheek while the other slides into the thick fur at the base of his neck. With a long sigh, he lowers his forehead against James'. He does nothing, says nothing, only rests there, but he knows the mane below him is growing wet. "My truest love," he whispers. 

Minutes pass with their heads bowed together. Then Thomas pulls back and brushes his fingers over the hair under James' eyes where scattered tears have clung. That this is all real is setting in and Thomas gives a disbeliving chuckle. "All that time, you were here and you let me think you dead. I told you my story and still you kept quiet." He lifts his head to look James in the eye. "Why?"

"I have only wanted you to be happy. After what they did!" His voice grows louder, lower with anger, but he visibly controls himself. "You've heard how I've lived, what I've done. Everything I've done. I thought it better you thought me dead than known me a monster."

He drops his head back to rest on the gunwhale. "I'd been told that you died in that place, by your own hand. I learned on that blasted ship that you had lived and I'd been lied to. And for six years, I never thought to seek the truth. I believed blindly and I never came for you. And now I've seen what that choice cost you."

Thomas sees the shape of James' self-recrimination now. Before finding Thomas, he'd believed that his lack of action led to Thomas' death. After, he knew, or thought he knew, that his inaction had led to years of isolation and cruelty. 

And he'd been making his full confession to Thomas over dinners and books, all the ways he had failed to be the man he thought he ought to be. 

He stirs from thought. "The man you'll never regret...?" 

James' laugh is low and harsh. "The Fourth Earl of Ashbourne. Lord Alfred Hamilton."

Thomas purses his lips."Mm. I'm sure God himself wouldn't count that against you." 

James actually laughs at that. 

"But, really, you should have known better, James. I have always loved you, have I not? From the first day when you walked up to me as sure as steel in that uniform and turned my clumsy words back on me. I have loved you every day since and I love you still. And as men aging and changing, our love should change too, should it not? It can grow to contain everything we are now. Everything we've done. For I've confessed to you too times I have been...less than human. Did your love come to contain that as well?"

He doesn't need to hear it to know the answer. Large hands settle tentatively on his waist and he shivers at their touch. 

"Know no shame, my love." He ducks his head to touch his lips to the Beast's. 

It's almost like kissing Lieutenant McGraw for the first time, his hesitance at returning the touch. He feels hair tickling his mouth and chin, much like it did the one night they'd had together after the lieutenant's last sail, when he'd come back sporting facial hair well-groomed and bright as brass. Before hell fell between them. 

It's still beautiful. More beautiful now, perhaps, for the years of absence and pain it washes clean. And though they're tired and sore and sitting on the deck of a ship surrounded by dead bodies, Thomas can feel James' body moving under his. He thinks he's not sure how it will work with James not quite human, then he realizes James is moving a disconcerting amount.

He pulls back and then can't say a word past his heart in his throat. His James, his beautiful James with the smooth skin and the sun-kissed freckles. James is here and human and it's more than Thomas can take. He buries his head in James' neck. 

James runs his hand up and down Thomas' back, gently, lovingly. When he speaks, it's from a human diaphragm and sounds much more like the voice that had argued with him and for him in the salons. "The terms of my curse were to stay a beast until I could find someone who would love me as a beast.

Thomas hums thoughtfully. 

James is sidetracked immediately, though his hands never stop moving, exploring, relearning. "What? You're thinking something."

"Living as a beast may be a curse, but the Beast himself isn't a new addition to your life, James. He's not someone you picked up and can shed again. He's part of you. Haven't you always felt him there? I have seen it in your record with the Admiralty of your skirmishes, well-meaning though they may have been." 

James' eyes search Thomas' face and Thomas can see the wheels turning behind his eyes as he tries to parse this revelation. Then he shakes his head to clear it and continues his story. "I brought several men and women onto the ship before you. Some welcomed the freedom. Some wanted to go home. Some I could have found attractive, but they weren't you. And none saw me as anything but an animal.

"You... I can't say I regret not telling you, but I regret the necessity. I needed to know that you could still love me. If you didn't, if my actions reviled you, then perhaps it would have been better for James McGraw to remain dead."

He is no longer looking at Thomas; his eyes are closed, peacefully basking in the touch of Thomas' fingers as they trace the newly revealed yet familiar lines of his face. 

"If all that was required for the curse to break was for someone to love you, your chains should have been struck the day it happened. I never stopped loving you and from the day I bandaged your knuckles after you fought a man on my behalf, I have known and loved your beast as well."

The two men are content to sit there, reaffirming their love and ignoring their wounds, but then a throat clears behind them. Thomas reaches instinctively for the pistol beside him, but James' hand covers his own. Looking up, Thomas sees that he's grinning. "Up you get, my lord."

Thomas rises gracefully despite his aches and exhaustion and offers James a hand to help him beside him. Only then does he turn around. 

Thomas first notices that the deck is clear of the dead, though the bloodstains remain. On the deck, instead, is a small complement of men in the casual, well-worn clothing of sailors. Many of them are greeting each other warmly, slapping each other on the back. One man off to the side is staring at his hands, amazed. 

Four men stand at the forefront, watching James and Thomas. One of them, an older, rotund man with more hair in his whiskers than on his head, grins at them with arms folded. "This is him, then?" 

James is standing close enough for Thomas to feel his warm bulk at ease. "This is him. Thomas, this Mr. Gates, my quartermaster. He's had the running of this ship the last few years. With the help of Billy Bones, there, our bosun." The tall young man next to Mr. Gates nods awkwardly at them. 

"Mr. de Groot, our sailing master. Who will probably want to retire since I doubt our old Walrus can ever reach the speed of the Cerberus." 

The grey-haired man on the other side of Mr. Gates stretches his mouth in a thin smile. "I'd trade it happily for having my body back." Thomas half-hears ribald suggestions from the back of the assembly at what else they plan to do, having bodies again, and he looks down to hide a smile. 

The fourth man, who'd been standing next to the bosun, walks up and sticks his hand out for Thomas to shake. "John Silver," he introduces himself with a roguish grin. "Your cook." He darts a look at James, who raises an eyebrow back in fond tolerance. 

"The first year or so, the food was perfectly inedible," James leans over to confide in Thomas' ear. 

"I heard that," Silver accuses, though he doesn't appear to be offended in the least. 

James tugs him forward and introduces him to the rest of his crew. For their light-hearted relief, Thomas sees a measure of weariness in each of their faces. He gathers that they'd been Captain Flint's pirate crew when he had attacked the Earl's ship and had found themselves invisible, insubstantial when the curse fell. Every sail that unfurled over his head, every line that coiled as he watched, every course correction on the ship's helm had been these men running the ship with him completely unawares. They all seem happy enough to meet him (though he supposes they've gotten to known him already). 

After he's shaken every hand, James orders Billy Bones to tap a barrel of rum for the hands. The cheers are even louder, though only just, when he orders Mr. de Groot to prepare them to sail for Nassau. 

"Come below with me?" he murmurs into Thomas' ear underneath the shouts and revelry. 

When they descend into the belly of the ship Thomas is given to understand is called the Walrus, he finds it transformed. The little passageway his cabin had been in is gone and there is only a large open room with hammocks strung from one side to the other. 

"Have my things disappeared as well?" he asks James. 

To his delight, James blushes, freckles vivid against the red. "Your items would have been moved into my cabin, I imagine. If you don't—"

Thomas turns and silences him with a kiss. "My dear, I would have them nowhere else." 

After being such a silent ship for so long, it brings joy to the two men's ears to hear singing and pounding footsteps from above. But all is quiet inside the captain's cabin, which actually looks much the same as it did when Thomas had ventured in to wake Captain Flint to danger. Thomas absently wanders over to inspect the library, only thinking about it when he hears James snort a laugh. 

He runs a hand along the spines, then pauses. "You told me you didn't have Marcus Aurelius."

"I did. You wouldn't have found it strange that my only copy had your own inscription in it?"

Thomas opens the book and runs his hand over the faceplate. _James, my truest love. Know no shame. TH._

James has moved behind him and slides his arms around his waist. "I'm sorry I didn't obey. I should have known better. No matter what they do to you, you'll always be a good man." He places a light kiss below Thomas' ear, then freezes when Thomas shivers against him. "Thomas..."

He laughs. "I'm sorry, my dear. I know this is— that is, I am adaptable to whatever time you need."

"I need?" James asks, incredulous. "An hour ago, you only knew me as your kidnapper, a giant, hairy beast."

Thomas turns in his arms. "I knew you better than that. But however many times I need to tell you that I know you to still be my James, I will tell you." 

James slowly runs his hands up Thomas' arms, watching his face, and that is how he sees the flinch when he reaches the red tear in his shirt sleeve. "Thomas, you're hurt!"

With a wry smile, Thomas replies, "Do you know I had quite forgotten? And for that matter, so are you." It appears that even as James had resumed his human form, he had retained the injuries sustained prior. 

James steps away to a chest in the room, surfaces with a bottle and a roll of bandaging. "Sit," he commands and Thomas obeys, stripping his shirt off unconcernedly. James pours some of the liquid from the bottle onto the cut and Thomas winces at the sting. Apologetically, James presses a kiss to his shoulder and rubs the medicine in with a gentle touch. 

"That day I saw your back," he starts, "I was ready to turn back for London and burn that wretched place down around their ears. That they could have laid a finger on you, who is worth more in character than any ten men put together.... Say the word and I'll do it now."

"It's in the past, truest. I am long gone and I have you beside me; who could touch me now? Is the bandage made fast? Off with your shirt, James, let me attend you."

Reluctantly, James lifts his shirt over his head and tosses it onto the floor. The scratch on his ribs is shallow and only a little blood had welled from it, but Thomas cleans it, and several other cuts and scratches on his chest and hands, and wraps a bandage around his ribs. For now he'll ignore the other scars and marks of James' life before finding him. 

James sighs and the bandage holds fast, but Thomas does not drop his hands. He instead traces James' abdominal muscles, his chest, the hard muscle underneath his soft-looking skin. His arms, thicker and stronger than he remembered. 

"They should have sculpted you as a god," Thomas muses. "A young Poseidon, commanding the waves."

"You're wrong," James says. Though his tone is mild, Thomas tenses and darts a look at him. He eases instantly at James' face, easy and open. "Long-limbed, young, noble, you could be the model of Hephaestion or Paris."

Thomas arches an eyebrow. "Young? You forget that I'm older than you."

What lies between them cannot be mistaken in James' half-lidded eyes as they consider Thomas from the chest up. "Age dares not touch you." 

He pulls Thomas' hand away from his chest and nuzzles into his palm. Even the light kiss of lips there is enough to set Thomas a-shiver. "How could I–" he whispers into Thomas' skin "–have helped myself?" He sucks at the pulse point in Thomas' wrist and Thomas can't stifle his moan, even had he wanted to. "Every day I wanted to tell you, wanted to drop to my knees and beg for forgiveness." The indentations of the restraints have faded to a dull chafe, but James seeks them out and kisses there too. Thomas blinks back wetness from his eyes. "I wanted you, too. Every day you swam in just your breeches and then stood on deck, glowing, clad in your dripping wet skin." Despite the drag of chapped skin, James' lips are light, featherlight, so sweet and delicate over the long self-inflicted scars on his wrists that it makes Thomas want to both cry and crush James firmly to him. 

"All I wanted for those months was to love you up close. I settled for loving you from afar." James' eyes have risen from his ministrations to bore into Thomas'. Thomas throws self-control to the wind and bends at the waist to crush his lips to his lover's. He feels James breath catch in the first second and then answer with the same force. Their first kiss on deck, the one that brought James back to himself, had been beauty and love and joy and discovery. This kiss is want and need and desperation and each man gives to the other what he himself needs. 

Thomas plants a knee on the bed beside James' thigh and leans down, pushing him down to the mat as he comes to lie parallel to him. 

James breaks away, panting, and asks in a hoarse voice, "Thomas, can you— I need—"

"Shh, love. I have you. Trust yourself to me." It's easy to once more get into James' head, for Thomas to know when and why James needs to cede control of a situation. So as the sea loves the beach, he moves in waves, laps at his lover's body. 

He brushes his fingers down the side of James' neck, listening for and finding the catch of breath on his most sensitive nerve. Thomas bends his head to follow the teasing touch with his mouth, licking and sucking and dragging his teeth until James sounds positively wrecked. 

"God, how I wanted you. The sun in your hair like an angel where you let the sun dry you." He pants the words out, pausing and mastering himself to continue as Thomas continues to play his body. "And I felt like the Devil himself spoke in my ear for wanting to sully your light with that black-hearted beast's body." 

"Take me swimming again," Thomas pauses his assault of James' senses to answer, "and I'll come to your cabin for you to have me wet." He moves back up to lean his forehead against James'. "I'm still wrapping my head around you being here, but it feels like life or death for me to have you now. My dearest one, may I?"

"I don't think I have anything to use in that capacity..." James starts regretfully, but Thomas shakes his head. 

"I don't think I have the patience anyway." Standing is a long process of sliding himself down James' body and his blood is on fire, hearing the whine dragged from James' mouth. But upright, he can unfasten James' trousers and drag them down his hard thighs, the shapely curve of his calves. James is fully exposed now and Thomas stands still for a moment, rubbing a finger against his lower lip in contemplation. What sculptor had endowed him with such power in every line and curve? What rough wear had left old scars and new bruises on his freckled ivory? "I need you to know, James," he whispers, entranced, "that I can see the same beauty within as without." 

"My lord..." James complains. 

Thomas takes pity on him, twisting uncomfortably on the bed at the praise, and takes down his own breeches and stockings. "It appears I will have to start all over again, teaching you how to take praise." He absently strokes a hand down his hardened length and sees stormy eyes drawn down instantly to it. "Another day, perhaps." He climbs forward until his body covers James entirely and lowers himself until, with a mingled gasp, their cocks lie alongside. Thomas rolls his hips and feels James press back. 

He buries his hands into James' hair, closing his eyes to imagine it Captain Flint's mane. "I did love you," he blurts, "and it scared me because James McGraw was to be my first, last, and every love and here I was drawn to a Beast like the maiden Europa to Zeus' white bull."

James' body is shaking under his. "Thomas, please!" he cries, begging for something, anything. Thomas always considered his lover's body a harp to be played. It's now a single quivering string, held on a trembling note so long it's on the cusp of snapping. 

With a heave of his hips—hard—against James, he rises enough to wrap a hand between them. The skin of his palm is nowhere near as soft and pampered as it had been the last time they did this, but the friction is addicting. 

His eyes close, unbidden, on the pleasure, but Thomas forces them open to watch James. He doesn't want to let him out of his sight even so long as it takes to blink. He sees then the water drawing back from the sand, drawn into a swell that comes quickly on, curling, cresting, then finally breaking upon the shore as James lets go and spills between them. 

Thomas' cock drags through the warm, wet release twice and the sensation drags his own orgasm through. Bonelessly, he sprawls across James. Sweat and come cool on their bodies as they lay in slightly stunned silence. A hand pets his hair and Thomas leans back into the touch with a whine as an aftershock wracks his body. 

"You know," James says, voice heavy with indolent pleasure, "if we are any couple, we are Orpheus and Eurydice. So did you descend into hell to bring me back."

"James, I love you more than life itself. And if I had known that the Cerberus, not Charon, would carry me across the River Styx, I would have sought you tirelessly."

As bright as James' shy smile is, Thomas regrets that tireless he is not. His bones feel thrice as heavy and he wants nothing more than to allow his eyes to close. James must see this, for he nudges Thomas' hip with a knee and commands him, "Up." Searching on the floor brings Thomas' white shirt to hand and James uses that to clean them both off. "Better? Now lie here. Get some rest, my lord; I'll be here." 

With permission granted, Thomas slots himself along between the woodwork and James' side and though his shoulder is hard with bone and muscle, Thomas pillows his head on it and tucks his face into his sweat-sweet neck and allows himself to drift off. How strange that for the first time in six years, no dream can be sweeter than reality.


	7. Chapter 7

Thomas wakes to a quill scratching on parchment. With swift strokes, James is sitting up on the bed, writing in what appears to be his logbook. It doesn't appear easy, since the berth was not made for two grown men to lie in and the logbook is balanced precariously on James' outside leg. 

Though still waking, Thomas lets his eyes fall back shut. He hears the quill pause. 

"Thomas?" James calls quietly. 

"Yes, dear one." 

Pleasure radiates in waves from the body beside him. "Look at me?"

He opens his eyes and sees James looking down at him, eyes overfull with love. He bends down to kiss him and Thomas, having only just woken, can do nothing but sleepily caress his lips in turn. What heaven it is, he praises. 

Then James pulls back. "We'll be upon Nassau before long. I need to go see to the deck, but...I wanted to be here when you awoke."

"Go. I'll join you as soon as I can dress." He doesn't fail to notice that while James is fully dressed, he's still naked beneath a blanket slung around his hips. 

"Please do. None of us have been to Nassau in five years; you're the only one who has been recently."

He hadn't thought about that. And with Rogers' ships having fled, would they have sailed back to Nassau? It's likely. 

While Thomas is distracted in thinking, James steals another kiss, with a crooked grin, then disappears. 

Having made himself presentable, even wearing a waistcoat and cravat, Thomas emerges from the captain's cabin. He only means to pass through the mess on his way up top, but John Silver stops him first, pushing a mug into his hands. While Thomas stares, mildly bewildered, he explains, "I'm afraid we're back to stew and hard tack again. And after yesterday's...strenuous activity, I'll bet you could use the nourishment."

Thomas fervently hopes he means the battle, but his smirk and the twinkle in his eye make him think that's only part of the activity he refers to. "My thanks, Mr. Silver."

His hunger having been awoken by Silver's words and the smell of food, Thomas is spooning stew into his mouth as quickly as he is able when he joins James, Mr. Gates, and Billy Bones at the rail. All faces turn towards him at his approach and he forces himself to lower the spoon into the mug and tell them what he knows of Nassau, from the hanged pirates at the harbor to the ouster of a Miss Guthrie from her inn. He darts a look at James' face; this was the woman from whom they'd learned about Captain Flint's existence. His eyes and the hard set of his mouth promise an oncoming storm for whoever took part in the action. Fortunately, Thomas had learned in London to see with open eyes and take in as much as possible of the social and political climate behind closed doors and in the streets. 

The crew seems cheered at the rumors of a pirate encampment somewhere on the beach and they make plans to seek them out. On this course, they aim not for the harbor but for the northern stretch of beach. Billy takes a glass into the rigging to seek out motion on the shore. 

"There is no more we can do until we understand the shape of things," James says finally, drawing the conversation to a temporary close. 

Nearly half an hour of tense silence passes when a shout sounds from the tops. All but Thomas look out at the beach, while Thomas envies the seemingly careless way Billy half-falls down the rigging, like the tallest acrobat he's ever seen. When he joins them at the rail, he points toward the camp they can see on the beach. "Vane's flag is there."

James had brought a chart out and now spreads it. "The water is deep here. Let's bring her in and drop anchor. Let colors fly now." Hands move to do his bidding and before long, Thomas hears the snap of wind catching cloth. He looks up and sees the black, now with a white skeleton and sword and hourglass in hand. Even as it sends a chill down his spine, he supposes it's a fair representation of Flint's mental state as a pirate. 

He doesn't know what there is to do but wait in the meantime. James prowls the deck, checking this and that, issuing orders in the tone for a man used to being obeyed. He's never seen this side to him, though he knows he would have had it with how successful a lieutenant he had been in the Navy. 

He's stirred from thought by the almighty splash of the anchor and the sound of chain paying out. And above that, "They're sending a launch!"

There on the beach, several men are running a boat into the water and then paddling out to intercept them. James orders: "Have weapons to hand but not at the ready. We don't know what type of reception we'll receive." 

Thomas stands shoulder to shoulder with James. There's nothing to do now but wait. 

James leans over to whisper in his ear and Thomas doesn't expect the question, "Did your father disinherit you?"

Thomas' brow furrows. "I don't know one way or another, but I would doubt it. My being institutionalized was scandal enough; I doubt he would formally renounce me as well. I don't— Why do you ask?"

He doesn't quite believe the casual tone James adopts. "Just thinking of our options."

As the rowboat draws up beside the ship, a man calls out, "Halloo the Walrus!"

James nods at two of the crew by the rail and a ladder is lowered over the side. Thomas sees the strong but silent Joji drift next to his captain, a threat for the boarders to behave. 

First overboard is...a woman? Thomas blinks. She's wearing a scowl mean enough to cow any of the pirates, but her face and long red hair are pretty enough. What he can see of them under her large black hat, anyway. She nods to James, who nods back and then she leans over the rail. "Come on then," she calls down. 

The man who climbs on board next is wearing an impressively yellow coat and has the most affected sideburns he has ever seen in his life. The man eyes James and utters a "Well. I'll be damned." 

The corner of James' mouth quirks up and he replies, "Miss me, Rackham?"

"Oh, like a hole in the head." He turns back to the rail and Thomas has to admire the sheer amount of swagger the man posseses in his scrawny frame. "It's him, alright," he calls down to the gig. 

Another man climbs aboard and prowls towards James. He has the grace and mystery of one of the great hunting cats and for all that his clothes are dirty and torn, he holds himself like a king among pirates. Standing before James, he lifts an eyebrow. James returns the look. Then one step further and he tugs James into a brotherly half-embrace, slapping him on the back for good measure. 

Stepping back, he asks, "Where the fuck have you been?"

"It's a long story."

"Aren't they all. Well what are you doing back here now? Come to gloat over us kicked out of our own town?"

"You want my help or not, Vane?"

"What've you got to help with? If this is your whole crew, it doesn't look like you have much to offer."

James steps back and raises an arm to indicate Thomas. "I've got the next Governor of Nassau. Lord Thomas Hamilton, Fifth Earl of Ashbourne."

All eyes snap to Thomas, who is staring at James in wonder and disbelief. 'What are you playing at?' he asks silently and James returns in the same manner, 'Trust me.'

Both of the new captain's eyebrows have risen now and he looks at Thomas, disconcertingly, as if he was a horse available for purchase. 

The man in the yellow coat sputters. "I'm sorry, perhaps in my dotage I misheard. Did you say 'Lord'?"

Thomas steps forward and bows to them sardonically. Beside him James says, "Lord Hamilton, may I present Charles Vane, Captain of the Ranger, Jack Rackham, quartermaster, and Anne Bonney, pirate."

"Your servant." They continue to stare. "Perhaps we ought to adjourn to your camp? It seems we have much to discuss."

Rackham, nods, distracted, then James asks, "But first, have the Governor's ships make it back yet?"

"Two set sail couple of days ago," Vane answers. "I take it you met them."

James shrugs a shoulder. "You could say that. Rogers is dead."

Vane stares at him. Hard. "Apparently we have a lot of catching up to do. Come on." He jerks his head toward the beach and climbs down into the gig with no further ado. 

After James has a word with Mr. Gates, he, Thomas, and Billy join the Ranger crew in making it back to land. Thomas thinks he's the only one who notices that Billy stares at his feet in the sand overlong, but he says nothing of it. 

Vane, Rackham, and Miss Bonney lead the way towards a tent erected in the sand. James pulls two chairs around to the opposite side of the table and it looks for all the world like a negotiation, Vane and Rackham versus Captain Flint and Thomas, with Anne Bonney and Billy Bones, their glowering bodyguards, behind them. 

"Tell us what has been happening in Nassau since I left," James orders, leaning over the table. "And I'll tell you what we do next."

Vane looks affronted at being so ordered, but he nods to Rackham, who proceeds to recount the last five years of Nassau. It is a long telling, made longer by the man's wandering style, and the sky is blood red in the setting sun by the time he finishes. It's a remarkable story of the outright battles against England and the roiling revolution. 

It's well after dark by the time James finishes laying out his plans. It's fascinating and familiar, the way his mind works. Though Rackham and Vane argue with him on certain points, he sees grudging respect in their eyes. Thomas makes himself heard in the negotiation as well, contributing what he sees the movements and reactions of the British to be. 

Finally, the tent falls quiet. And Rackham asks, "So where do we go from here?"

Thomas speaks up. "I should like to go home. Do you have horses? And Captain Flint, if you'd escort me?"

He thinks he hears Billy snort behind them. 

Vane lifts an eyebrow. "Home?"

"I own a house in the interior. I'm not well established to the people here, but neither am I unfamiliar to them. Captain Vane, do you have men watching the harbor?"

"I do."

"Please let Mr. Bones or anyone else from the Walrus know when the Governor's ships return. Captain Flint and I will make our introductions once word has spread but before they have their own plan."

"And just why the fuck should I do as you say?" Vane asks. He leans back in his chair and the line of his body itself is a threat. 

"Because I fucking say so." Flint glowers next to him and Thomas fondly doubts that will help.

"You can do as you like, Captain, but I'm your chance to get what you want while letting England think she got what she wants. Now, if you'll excuse us, gentlemen." Without waiting for argument or assent, Thomas stands and leaves the tent. James is only a few beats behind him and favors him with a wry smile. 

It's a beautiful, clear night for a ride and Thomas will never grow tired of hearing the sounds of nocturnal nature. With James riding beside him, he feels his heart swell within his breast. That's it, it is a night for lovers. 

"Ah, there's the church. We're almost there."

The cottage is dark inside, but the matches stand by the door for Thomas to light candles. James makes himself useful fetching wood inside for a fire. "I'll have you know, I split those logs myself. It seemed like the thing to do."

James continues to coax the flames before turning, smiling. "I would never have doubted your resourcefulness, my lord."

"I supposed myself a man of the earth here. Though I'll admit I miss my goose feather bedding. I could have afforded it, but it doesn't seem to be a popular commodity."

James turns from the fire, which has finally caught, with a wry grin in the corner of his mouth. "All a pirate needs is a well made hammock. Now, have you anything I can make into a supper for us?"

"I have a few root vegetables," he waves towards a corner of the kitchen, "but I'll admit I've been buying my meals. You know how to cook?"

"I have a few tricks up my sleeve. But it's been...a long time since I've had a man's hands to do it."

"Then I'll propose a trade. Make me dinner and I'll take you to bed." James smiles at him, but Thomas sees the weariness in his face now. "Even if it's just to sleep, my dear one," he adds softly. 

James moves into him, laying his forehead against Thomas' jaw. Thomas clasps the back of his neck briefly, holding him. Then James moves back and starts moving around the kitchen, seeing to supper. 

Thomas is content to sit and watch him chop and stir and rummage through cupboards until he finds what he needs. The resulting plate is simple but filling and Thomas praises James' resourcefulness and skill until his cheeks glow pink in the firelight. 

Afterwards, they sit before the fire (Thomas in a chair, James on the floor, leaning against Thomas' legs, Thomas stroking his hair) and talk until the fire dies low enough to be banked. 

Then, as promised, Thomas takes James to bed. They don't share passion this night, but merely the simple love of curling together under the same quilt.


	8. Chapter 8

In the morning, James rides back down the beach and Thomas remains at home. He's restless with James out of sight, but he does his best to tend to his garden and fix up the house.

Around midday, he hears a work horse's slow, plodding gait, unlike the gallop James had set out with, and he goes to the door to see. Mr. Gates is driving a horse and cart and when he wheels round, Thomas sees James and Billy in the back, casually guarding a few chests. 

"Where can we stash these, milord?" Gates asks, nodding to the chests. 

"Thomas, please," he instructs him with a smile. "Come around back, there's a cellar." 

James and Billy each grab a side of the chest and though they make the lifting look effortless, Thomas can see the way their muscles stand out. Mr. Gates has come up beside him. "Snuck them overboard on one of the jolly boats last night, landed them up the coast. No reason for Vane and his men to know all our secrets."

"Quite right," Thomas agrees, bemused at the easy way he has entered the quartermaster's confidence. "May we help?"

Mr. Gates grins at what was clearly the right question to ask, and together they haul the second chest back to the cellar entrance. One more trip by James and Billy, carrying this chest inside the house, is all that's needed before the three men make to leave again. 

James pulls Thomas aside to speak with him before they go. "I have to go talk to Vane some more. The lazy prick doesn't even wake up til noon. If you're needed and I can't come from you, I'll send Mr. Gates or Billy. Don't go with anyone but them, do you understand?"

"I do," Thomas promises. "You'll be back tonight?"

"I should. Don't know how late, though." 

Flicking his eyes to the cart, Thomas sees Mr. Gates looking carefully elsewhere and Billy pretending not to be watching them. He wants to send James off with a kiss, but he regrets that he has to be mindful of his neighbors. Instead, he takes James' hands in his and squeezes them, rubbing his thumbs along the backs. James smiles in understanding and squeezes back. Then he's gone. 

Thomas is asleep in his chair by the fire by the time James returns. He wakes, blinking sleep from his eyes, to see James crouched next to him, a warm hand on his knee. "Let's get you to bed, my lord."

 

Thomas wakes in the morning thinking that James' heart is beating awfully fast. Then he realizes it's a fist hammering on the front door. James must realize this at the same time, for he leaps out of bed and grabs a pistol from under the bed. 

"Stay here," he commands, his voice low and intense. Thomas does as he says, but edges to the doorway from where he can glimpse the front of the house. James is only clad in his shirt, but makes his way to the door and Thomas hears him fling it open. 

Then the pistol is uncocked and he hears, "Jesus, Billy, you couldn't have said it was you?"

"You greet all your neighbors at gunpoint? No, I guess I shouldn't be surprised." 

Thomas pulls breeches and a shirt on and makes his way into the kitchen. Billy nods at him and his eye clearly takes in their disheveled state. 

"Neighbors don't generally pound down a door," Thomas notes mildly. 

Reminded of why he's here, Billy says, "Word from town. The Governor's ships have docked. I stopped in myself on the way here, word is starting to spread."

"The town knows Mr. Rogers is dead?" 

"His staff is melting down," he says with no small satisfaction. "Messages are flying between his house and the fort as fast as they can write them."

Thomas lifts an eyebrow. "I guess it's time we introduce ourselves. Mr. McGraw?" Without another word, he retreats to their room and begins to tidy himself up. He hears James and Billy talk for a little while longer then the door shuts and James comes back. By that time, Thomas is dressed in the finest clothes brought forth from the ship: a rich grey silk coat over a black waistcoat, with cravat tied neatly at his neck. Cream linen breeches over white hose and buckled leather shoes, the latter of which Thomas had purchased in town on one of his previous shopping trips. 

A glance in the shaving glass shows him the face of Lord Thomas Hamilton and he recoils for a moment at the cognitive dissonance. Then he turns away. James is just pulling on trousers, but had stopped mid-motion to watch Thomas. He meets his eye now with a smile both fond and nostalgic. 

"I have no wig," Thomas says, "but a hat should suffice." He kisses James briefly. "Now, you should not let me distract you." With a wink, he leaves James to ready himself. 

When they reach Nassau, the city is in a state of confusion. Everywhere they look, clusters of people are whispering amongst themselves. It is a ripe time for the pirate rebellion to rise, but Captain Vane had promised to yoke any hot heads. As such, they reach the Governor's mansion unmolested. 

Thomas, remembering the uses of his title, introduces himself to the Marine on the door as Lord Hamilton, here to speak with whoever is currently in charge. He sees the man's eyes widen and when he excuses himself to notify the proper people, Thomas knows he has thrown a new grenade amongst an office already under fire. 

A maid comes out and curtsies. "This way, my lord."

She leads them to an office door and then melts back away. 

Thomas raps on the door and waits with his hat tucked under his arm. After a minute, the door opens on a flustered man with greying hair. "You'll be with the Governor's office?" Thomas asks pleasantly. 

He gives a half-bow. "Mr. Penn at your service, Mr...?

"Lord Thomas Hamilton, Fifth Earl of Ashbourne. My steward, James McGraw." Thomas casually sweeps a hand back to include James as they brush past Mr. Penn and his surprise. 

Inside the room, a desk is piled high with papers. Two chairs sit before it, one of which Thomas helps himself to, while James stands at attention behind him. Mr. Penn has gathered his wits and comes to the desk. He helps himself to the Governor's chair, but Thomas notes that he does so with great discomfort. 

"I've heard that Governor Rogers was lost at sea? A terrible loss for the island."

"Yes, my lord. Taken by pirates. He had been dedicated to eliminating the pirate scourge and it turned those men quite against him."

Thomas murmured indistinctly, words of agreement and sympathy 

"But how can I help you, Lord Hamilton?"

"I've been living here on New Providence Island and with the news of the Governor, it seems you have a crisis of leadership. The news will be some time traveling to London, London deciding what to do with it, and sending their answer, or their man, back. You have heard of my father, Lord Alfred Hamilton, formerly Lord Proprietor of the Bahama Islands?"

The man's eyes widen. "You're the Thomas Hamilton of the Nassau proposal? Governor Rogers used your proposal for this expedition. The universal pardon did its work, my lord, though there were of course hold outs." He tilts his head, still regarding Thomas. "But, my lord, I had heard...?" He can't bring himself to say anything else. 

Thomas flaps his hand dismissively. "Oh yes, there were all sorts of rumors in London, I was pained to hear. I had simply withdrawn to the tropics. A matter of family politics, I'm afraid. Of course, I was glad to hear that men of character did not attribute truth to rumors behind which there was none."

Mr. Penn rushes to assure him that he had dismissed it immediately. 

"It is of no matter. I only mention my proposal in that, with my understanding of Nassau, I would consider it my duty to see it through this upheaval. Do you have record of the late Governor's benefactors and funders?"

"I do, my lord." He turns to rummage through the unkempt desktop. He pulls out, at length, a logbook and opens on a page, which he leaves open and hands to Thomas. 

"Much obliged, sir. I would beg of you to write to these gentlemen and recommend me to them. This experiment can be saved by a swift and orderly changing of hands." Thomas stops and his eyes narrow. Stiffly, he continues, "Remember me particularly to Governor Ashe in the Carolinas. Remember to him our worthy friendship and partnership." He sees out of the corner of his eye, James looking at him worriedly. "Remind me, Mr. McGraw, to apprise you of my last conversation with Peter. You'll find the topic of no small interest." The bite of nails into skin tells him that his hands had curled into fists and he forces them to relax.

Is it the right move to write to Peter? Should he leave well enough alone? He considers Peter's weak morals, to allow himself to be manipulated and bribed, and thinks guilt, shame, and fear of reveal should do nicely to make him Thomas' most fervent supporter. 

He smiles once more at Mr. Penn. "And is there a log of his debts? I think a good faith payment should ease their minds and guarantee their continued support."

By the time they leave, Thomas feels easier in his limbs and sees the same easing of tension from James' shoulders. Now, on the street, James is even laughing. "Had you spun his head any more, my lord, I believe it would have come clean off."

Warmth suffuses his body as he smiles back. He doesn't relish picking up the threads of his title, but hearing it on James' tongue still gives him a thrill. 

There are few enough people around as they walk back to the stables, so Thomas asks, "I know what part I play in your– our plan, but what about you? Will you set me in the Governor's mansion and go back on the account? Turn respectable and become a merchant captain? What do you _want_?"

James draws closer that their arms brush as they walk; they can't risk being any closer in public. "If I thought arriving at your house to find you gone was painful, it was nothing compared to watching you walk away. I don't intend to allow either to happen again. I stay with you, Thomas. Besides, I think I'm done with the sea. She was my escape from home, then my escape from England, then the only way to escape my curse. I have no more need of her, nor her of me.

"So what do you say? Could Governor Hamilton use Mr. McGraw for his man?"

James lifts his eyes from where the road smiles reflexively at Thomas' fond regard. "Always," Thomas promises. "I don't intend to stay Governor long, but I'd have you beside me anywhere I am for always."

"Let's get you Governor first," James says, with a wry smile but bright eyes betraying how the answer pleases him. 

They quiet then, seeing a figure in front of the stables, standing still enough to be waiting for them. As they draw closer, they find a woman standing at attention in a fine, intricate dress with her décolletage prominently displayed. Thomas tips his hat to her, but her eyes focus on James' face. 

"You are Captain Flint, oui?"

Voice light despite the stiffness in his pose, James demures. "I am not."

Thomas takes over. "While the name sounds familiar, I don't believe we have made his acquaintance yet." He reaches for her hand and bows over it. "Nor have we had the pleasure of making yours, Miss...?"

A blush rises prettily on her cheeks of dark cream, but her French-accented voice remains steady. "There is no need for that, my lord, Captain. Max hears things, has the confidence of Captain Vane's crew." 

"You're one of the whores," James realizes aloud. 

She smooths her hands down the front of her dress. "I am the proprietor of such an establishment, yes. I am a businesswoman and, despite many a man's objection, I sit on the Governor's advisory panel. In other words, I occupy a position of some use to you."

"You wish to consider a...business arrangement?" Thomas asks, catching on. 

She nods. "Just so." 

He smiles warmly at her. "Have you a place we can discuss business, then?"

Madame Max smiles back.


	9. Chapter 9

The first few nights on land, they had fallen into bed together in the most innocent of manners: both still clad in their shirts, Thomas curled tight into the protection of James' body. 

The night after their first sojourn to Nassau, Thomas had wanted to remind James of the pleasure in simple touch. On his knees, he nipped at the hard muscle of James' thighs, laved and worshiped his cock. If the heady scent and taste of arousal hadn't been enough to have Thomas hard and quivering on his knees, he found that the tight, near-painful grip of James' hands on his shoulder and back of his neck sent cues of readiness right to his cock. But when James had looked down and opened his eyes, he had thrown himself backwards with a cry.

"James?" Thomas hadn't been sure what had happened, only knew that James now stood across the room, naked in more ways than one, staring at him in horror. 

Slowly Thomas had gotten to his feet and advanced with his hands out. "James, please talk to me." He turned his head to follow the direction of James' gaze and saw that dark marks had blossomed on his shoulder, where James' hand had clutched. "Is it these?"

Words had started pouring from James' mouth. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, Thomas. You know I never mean to hurt you. You're so...good. You're not like the men here and I forget how to treat you." His voice is bitter and angry. "I was a beast for so long, I've forgotten how to be a lover. I thought everything would be normal again, with Flint gone and you restored."

Thomas had refused to let him blame himself. "I'm not made of glass, James. I've never been, even though I once was a posh lord with no knowledge of pirates or men's cruelty. I know them now." James had stared straight ahead, like an officer ready to receive rebuke, but his body trembled with suppressed rage. 

Thomas had circled behind him and wrapped his arms around his chest, slowly, carefully, so as not to startle him. He whispered, lips close enough to brush James' ear and make him shiver, "Do you remember how you blushed the week I had to wear a cravat in any public setting to hide your love marks? Do you remember how proudly I bore them bare around the house?" Thomas remembered. Vividly. "If I am made of anything other than flesh, it's not glass."

James had relaxed, but still went silently to bed, leaving both of them unfulfilled. Thomas had been solicitous over the next couple of nights, liberal with chaste touches and pets. 

Now, this morning, three days since their aborted intimacy, Thomas has plans. He had held James through the night and wakes him by combing his fingers through his bed-tangled locks and nibbling on his ear and neck. James, a restless sleeper always, turns onto his side away from Thomas, then moans as Thomas moves in behind him, naked, with his erection hard up against James' rear. 

"Thomas," he groans. 

"Would you wake, James, and see what I got us at the chemist?"

James turns over and blinks sleepily at him, then at the jar Thomas is holding up. It takes a few moments for his brain to catch up and then his eyes widen. 

"Can I make love to you, James? You can say no, of course, but I have missed you. And I'd like to show you that you are capable of gentleness. "

He doesn't need James to say yes, seeing how his eyes grow dark and the sheets bunch under his hands, but he waits for it anyway. 

Once lust and uncertainty pass through his expression, his face finally settles on a playful grin and he asks, "Would you like me to say 'Please, Thomas?'"

Thomas bends to kiss him, tongue swiping his lower lip, teeth following in a gentle graze, and then pulls back. "You know how I like it when you do."

James had slept in his shirt and Thomas' first task at hand is to rid him of it. It is like the feast of a king to have so much naked, musclebound man spread out before him. He sweeps a hand along his torso possessively. Then brings his hand back up to circle then tweak a nipple, which stands to attention easily. Certainly enough for Thomas to bend over and take it in his mouth, sucking and toying his tongue along it as his free hand caresses James' erection 

James keens, his head thrown back on the sheets and eyes closed to let nothing distract him from the pure pleasure of feeling. But Thomas doesn't want to overwhelm him. Leaving his chest alone, he lays himself half across James' body and kisses him again, pouring his mouth honey-sweet and gentle over his lover's. Times like these, he has always loved how James allows himself to yield to Thomas. 

Whenever James starts to get desperate, goading Thomas on with his teeth and digging his fingers into flesh, Thomas pulls away and gives him only the most loving of kisses: lips brush his closed eyelids, his brow, his shoulder. When James stills, his urgency cooled, Thomas returns to his mouth. 

James' eyes open at the scrape of the jar opening and without thinking, he draws his knees up. Thomas had been looking at the jar, but favors James now with a dark look and a bright smile. "Good lad, James. Would you like your reward?"

"I've missed you," James whispers and Thomas is not entirely certain that it was what he had meant to say. 

Long, pleasure-soaked minutes later is when the pounding comes at the door. It could not have come at a more inconvenient time. 

Thomas withdraws his hand from where two fingers had been growing intimate between James' lovely, hard cheeks and kisses his mouth briefly to swallow James' bereft moan. "I'm not done with you," he says when he pulls back and looks into James' dark, wide eyes. "Lie still and I'll be back."

James nods, but Thomas notices that his eyes stray in the direction of the wardrobe, with the loaded pistols and saber inside. He knows it's unlikely that James will remain in bed and not arm himself against mischief. Thomas dresses quickly in just a shirt and breeches and, on second thought, grabs a dressing gown that will more likely hide the bulge in his breeches.

As he closes the bedroom door firmly, the rapping comes again, with a called, "Lord Hamilton?" He opens the door on a messenger, quite correctly dressed and thus having come from the English camp. "I come from Mr. Penn at the Governor's house, my lord. He is wishing to see you at you very earliest convenience."

"Thank you. You can tell Mr. Penn that I'll be along before noon."

The messenger departs and Thomas closes his eyes for a moment. Have they passed the first hurdle? 

Then he thinks about James, still naked and wanting in the other room. His erection, which had been flagging at the interruption, is bolstered. Upon opening the door, however, he finds James not naked and debauched but dressed in a shirt and standing beside the door with his pistols drawn. Thomas won't fault him for that. Sleeping with one eye open, always having a weapon to the ready is most understandable, given the life he had been living. 

"Mr. Penn is expecting us today," he says as if nothing is amiss. James lowers the pistols and restores them to the wardrobe. As he shucks his shirt, Thomas catches a tantalizing glance of the shine of lubrication between his thighs. He doesn't wait, but comes up behind James and runs his hand there. James freezes in place with a hitched breath. "Were you protecting me, James?" He doesn't have to see his face; the back of his neck blushes pink around his freckles. "Let me repay the favor, let me take care of you." 

James melts back into the touch and Thomas easily maneuvers him back into bed. Three fingers he introduces now and James' breath blows out. "You're so lovely like this," Thomas whispers. "So pliant under my hand, so fiery 'round my fingers." James wriggles and contorts as Thomas stretches him and occasionally rewards, or teases, him with a brush over the bundle of nerves that make him quiver and clench. 

"Thomas, please," James whispers, voice hoarse with need. Thomas pulls his fingers out, but doesn't stifle James' moan this time. His cock twitches at the sound and he strokes it indulgently with the lubrication clinging to his fingers already and then fresh from the pot. He can't stop staring at James as he does so and James' eyes focus on him as well. 

Then he rolls James onto his side and brushes cool, copper locks aside, to kiss the back of his neck. As he continues to brush his lips over neck and shoulder, he lines his hips up behind James' and eases them together. 

It's been a long time since either of them has done this and though each of their bodies is crying out for more, they take it slow. Once Thomas is fully sheathed, he stops, holds still, breathes with his forehead to the hot skin at the back of James' neck. Like the night sky over the sea, stars flare in the dark behind his eyes. He hears how James' breath whines on the exhale and he strokes a hand down his flank. Then he grasps James' hip and begins to move. 

Like a ship riding the swell, they move together. It's the push and pull of wanting and giving, needing and having and yet always needing more. Though they're both frantic with their need for congress, Thomas keeps his pace slow and steady. He leans his head down to kiss James' shoulder and is rewarded with an arm curving back to tangle fingers in his hair. It gives James leverage to pull as he pushes his hips back to drive Thomas deeper and the way his fingers twitch and grasp makes Thomas' heart pound all the faster. 

Nothing else in the world exists for them in this moment, not magic, not war, not even civilization. 

But Thomas is losing control of his body as his hips move faster, egged on by the way James' low moans are becoming breathless and higher-pitched. He twists his hips and must hit his spot, for James shouts and all control is lost. Thomas takes James in a firm grip and relentlessly pushes them closer to release. 

"Christ, Thomas," James pants. "I— ah!—God, I love you. Fuck!" His body clenches around Thomas as he comes and pulls Thomas along with him. 

As they come down from their high, Thomas decouples them. Love surging through his veins, he can't stop touching his lover beside him, brushing his hands along his trembling thighs, his heaving chest, his lips bitten raw. "What say you, we forget Nassau and stay in bed forever?"

"That's your lazy, spoiled nobility speaking, my lord," James rejoins with a languid laugh. He turns over and kisses Thomas lovingly. 

To his surprise, Thomas finds himself blinking back tears. "I imagine we should probably wash before going into town." 

James snorts inelegantly. "If the way I walk doesn't give us away, the smell of us should." Thomas smiles into James' skin. James' musk is intoxicating enough, mixing sweat and sex with it was always a potent combination to Thomas' libido, but James has the right of it. 

"Maybe just not yet," he demurs, thinking _Let me hold him just a little while longer_.

 

They ride into town a little after eleven, once more dressed like a lord and a gentleman. Mr. Penn meets them at the door with relief. "My lord, Mr. McGraw, I'm pleased to see you again. After consultation with the late Governor's advisors, we wish to ask you to step in as Governor temporarily until Whitehall makes a decision."

Thomas inclines his head. "I will endeavor to do my part, Mr. Penn."

The rest of the morning is spent getting acquainted with the property and papers of the Governor's manse. In the afternoon Thomas will meet with Rogers' coterie of advisors. 

Over lunch, James nonchalantly asks about the circumstances of the late Governor's demise, having heard some fantastic rumors. 

Mr. Penn shakes his head. "There were rumors of a treasure ship that the Gov– the late Governor pursued. Quite against the advice of advisors and I, but there is always a faction who will egg a man on. I'm afraid his debts weighed heavily on his mind as it was."

"Such a shame," Thomas murmurs. "A waste of potential, it seems. I've read his book—" (aloud to James, having been given it by Mr. Rackham, who sought to know their own thoughts on it) "—and it seems he had quite the analytical mind. I'm not surprised to know he had gotten so far. Something I have heard, a rumor perhaps and if you say so I will dismiss it at once, is that Governor Rogers had a young woman, incredibly a business owner of some sort, detained on the matter of this treasure ship."

Mr. Penn shifts uncomfortably at this. "It is true, I'm afraid. She's a woman tender of age yet well endowed–with gold, that is–and she would not reveal her source of income when the Governor demanded. She's a woman of no small courage it seemed. Something about the tropics makes women so bold, it seems. Never saw a woman of London speak so." James smooths the hair on his chin and Thomas sees a smile linger at the corner of his mouth when he's done. 

"I'm sure Governor Rogers had the best of intention, but I don't intend to operate this island with women in captivity like common criminals. Will you take me to her?" Mr. Penn looks surprised, but orders a nearby soldier to escort them to the fort following their lunch. 

The ride to the fort isn't long, but James and Thomas have time to exchange a few words while their detail rides ahead. "She was one of your...passengers...then?"

"One of high spirits indeed. We had many a talk of remaking the world into a place of freedom. Her father was a business man who only wanted a son to continue the business, so she tried to make herself what he wanted. As a girl, he never looked twice at her. She asked me, when I offered her her freedom, to take her someplace she could carve out a place of her own. So I brought her to Nassau." As they ride through the forbidding gate to the fortress, James asks, "I wonder what happened to Captain Hornigold," before soldiers come to hold their horses' heads for dismount. 

"This way, my lord," the escort beckons, after speaking with what must be a captain of the guard. They all follow the gentleman into the dark, dripping stone maze. Thomas shivers at the foreboding gloom and is grateful when James' hand brushes his. 

They stop at a locked door and the fort commander takes a key from a ring. Thomas smells stale air as the door unlocks. Inside, a young woman turns towards them with a scowl, arms folded in a haughty pose. "No Governor today? Is he at least charging admission for the gawkers?"

Thomas turns his head to glance at James and sees minute cues to his relief at seeing her whole and well and, apparently, in spirits. He sees why James took such a shine to her. "The Governor has actually come to see you. Lord Thomas Hamilton, at your service. I have taken over since Governor Rogers' untimely demise." 

Her eyes narrow. "He went after the Cerberus, didn't he?"

"Yes, he did."

"Then I'm not surprised. And why are you here, come to interrogate me about the 'dread beast' and his treasure?" Her words are practically dripping scorn and he's sure without seeing him that James is trying not to laugh.

James steps forward at that moment with a bow. "James McGraw, miss. His Lordship's steward. We're here to let you out, apologize for your treatment by the previous regime, and see about you getting your tavern back." 

This at last surprises her. Then she recovers. "I wasn't just a publican, you should know. I ran the trade out of Nassau."

"Trade?" Thomas murmurs. She shoots him a sharp look, but he lets his amusement be seen. "On that matter, I should like to consult you from time to time on the island's business. May I?" 

He offers her arm and then, suddenly, she smiles. She is transformed, looking less like one of the Furies and more like a young woman of good family. She takes his arm and together they walk out of the cell and into the light. 

Back in Nassau, he sees Miss Guthrie to the mansion and leaves her there for his meeting with Rogers' council. Before he goes, he calls over his shoulder, "Mr. McGraw. See to Miss Guthrie reclaiming her tavern?"

There, he has given James an excuse to talk with her. He pretends not to notice his grateful look and goes in to his meeting. 

It lasts for two hours, in which time the esteemed gentlemen have tested him, censured him, agreed with him, and voiced their support for him. It had been a busy two hours. 

After their conversation earlier in the week, he is unsurprised to find Madame Max sitting amongst the wigged and pompous men. He asks her to stay back and she does with a curious gleam in her eye.

"Yes, Governor?"

"The establishment joined to yours. Who owns it now?"

Her eyes harden. "It had been owned by a Miss Eleanor Guthrie, but Governor Rogers seized it for noncompliance. It runs itself with her staff, but I believe it is run at the pleasure of the Governor. My establishment as well, in return for my being heard in this council, serves as the Governor wishes."

Thomas knew enough what that meant. "I hope you and your personnel were not ill-treated."

"Non, just ill-paid."

"Well, I'm sure you will be pleased to hear that your business is safe from me. And your neighbor is at this very moment reclaiming her business."

Max looks down and to the side, away from him. "May I go?"

Thomas studies her face."You care for her." 

"Yes." Her voice is not clever or cagey now, but soft and open and Thomas understands what she is letting him know.

"I understand," he says and now she looks up at him and smiles. 

"I know." 

He raises an eyebrow. As Miss Guthrie's partner, as the woman it's said has her finger on all the gossip in town, he wonders what she's not telling him. "You know more of this story than you're letting on, aren't you."

He doesn't elaborate and she doesn't ask. She only smiles mysteriously, dark eyes mischievous. "A lady never tells, Governor."

Thomas laughs. "No wonder Nassau danced to your tune. If you ever have anything to share, please do and I will endeavor to return the favor. If you wish to ask of me anything, my door is open." Rather than being a dismissal, he walks her outside and finds James waiting anxiously. 

"Mr. McGraw," she greets him, amused. James appears to glower at the familiarity and the levity in her voice, then remembers he's not Captain Flint anymore and tips his hat to her. 

Once she's passed, Thomas and James walk towards the stables. 

"How did it go?" James asks. 

"I think they'll come to support me. They were tripping over themselves to distance themselves from Rogers' chaos. Do you know, James, I think we might be able to pull this off?"

"If Ashe doesn't squeal on us. If our past doesn't come back to haunt us. If I don't turn back into a hulking beast for any reason."

"Always the dour pragmatist," Thomas teases him. 

They find their horses and begin to ride back to Thomas' house. 

 

A week later, Thomas is puttering around a budding vegetable garden, finally taking some time to himself after putting out countless fires in Nassau, when a whole delegation arrives. He tenses at the sight of the large party heading towards him, but relaxes when he identifies Billy Bones in front. Jack and Anne, of course, are with him, as well as Max and Eleanor, who looks considerably neater and more at ease than the first time he saw her. 

He calls in the direction of the house, "Visitors, James." He turns back to the party and welcomes them. "Won't you come in?"

James has appeared in the door and upon recognition, he ducks back inside. Doubtless to replace the pistol or blade he had brought for their defense. 

"What are you doing here?" James asks without preamble as everyone files into the house. He's asking the group, but his eyes are on Billy, who must have brought them here. 

"I'll put the kettle on," Thomas murmurs and goes to do just that. He notices that Jack and Eleanor are looking around the cottage— Eleanor with some subtlety, Jack with none. Anne looks bored with everything and Max sits still, quiet and alert. 

Billy nods to Jack. "You should hear him out."

"Should I?" James takes such an arch tone that sounds exactly like someone whose subordinate has spoken out of turn that Thomas has to hide his chuckle behind his hand. 

Jack starts. "Yes, you should. I have heard that you no longer plan to captain the Walrus or any other boat. Is this true?"

James says nothing, only looks at him. 

"I see. Well, should that be the case, Nassau would be short a pirate captain."

Thomas decides to interject, reminding him mildly, "You know, as Governor I should inform you that piracy is not tolerated in British waters."

Jack shoots him an amused look. "But of course." Turning back to James, he continues, "I would propose that the Walrus is in need of a captain and it should be me. I would keep all of your men, supplemented with my own."

"And what? You get the ship for free? You call that an offer, Rackham?"

Max cuts in before Jack can open his mouth. "Not for free, but not for money either. We offer you legitimacy."

Thomas is taking down tea cups and can't see James' face, but he's sure he can hear the look of disbelief on his face. To be honest, he's intrigued as well. Leaving the cups where they are, he drifts over to stand next to his partner. 

It's Eleanor's turn to speak. "The Guthrie family I bear the name of are very rich and influential merchants. If we offer them something, like the opportunity to develop and trade with Nassau, they should find it worth supporting your presumptive governorship." She nods to Thomas. 

Max continues, "My proposal is that the first sail of the Walrus under Captain Jack Rackham is to Philadelphia, where the three of us can negotiate with Eleanor's grandfather. Bringing his granddaughter back from the dead should be worth an audience, I think."

"Would you remain with them?" Thomas asks Eleanor. 

She shakes her head. "Nassau is my place now. In England or the colonies, I'd be just another woman in the family to be married off to their advantage."

James appears to be thinking, though his eyes have wandered to his bosun. "You think the men would go for it?"

Jack snorts. "After whatever bonding exercise you and your crew have been on, you can talk them into it with barely any effort."

Hearing the kettle, Thomas gets up the prepare the tea. The silence is uncomfortably long and he wonders if James is making them wait on him on purpose. It's a worthy plan, might even work, and he would support it for his part, but the Walrus is James' to decide on. 

"If I decide to step down, the men will put it up a vote." A glance shows Billy nodding in approval. "And then we'll begin negotiation. I'm sure the men will have their own conditions to add."

"Of course they will," Jack agrees, with a drawl and a roll of the eyes. 

"Until that happens, do you have any other business with us?" James' attempt to usher them out is blatant and while Thomas hides a smile, he sees Jack's eyes flicker between them. 

"Nothing at present, no. You'll let me know after the vote?"

"I will."

"And you'll, of course, have the good sense to not mention this to our mutual friend?"

James laughs outright. "Of course. I hope you know what game you're playing, Rackham."

"Well, we'll see, won't we?" Jack rises and his entourage with him. 

Thomas notices Eleanor lingering, her hands still wrapped around the teacup, and Max ushering the others outside. Only then does she get to her feet. "A moment, Mr. McGraw?"

James looks at her then to Thomas, who smiles and bows himself out of the room. Out of sight, but not so far that he can't hear. 

"Did you need something, Miss Guthrie? Things at your tavern are going well?"

"Yes, thank you. It'll take the drunk fucks some time to figure out who's boss again, but they're no danger to me. I wanted to ask...I've heard things around town. I've heard them call you Captain Flint."

"...I used to be called that, yes."

Silence stretches out then Thomas hears the swishing of cloth skirts and an aborted sound of surprise from James. 

"Thank you," she says at length. "And I am glad to have met you. Mr. McGraw." Soft footsteps retreat and the front door opens and shuts. 

Thomas slips back into the room and arches an eyebrow at James' back. James turns to him, huffing a laugh. "I wondered if we would have that conversation some time. Though I must admit, I expected shouting and maybe a fist to the face, not a hug and a thank you."

Gently, Thomas reminds him, "That's because when it comes to you, you expect the worst of people."

James ducks his head, but Thomas approaches to lift his chin and kiss away the sting of reproach. 

"I'm sorry, Thomas. It's just that I've seen the worst of people often enough to not expect much better."

Thomas strokes his silky hair and smiles at him fondly. "What do you say we finish our work then go for a ride? Somewhere secluded, perhaps. Let's escape responsibility for a bit. And then we'll come back and arrange the world as we see fit. What do you say, my love?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you everyone! For a special treat, you'll notice you can turn the page for another chapter: The Epilogue


	10. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't begin to tell you all how much I appreciate everyone who has left Kudos and Comments on this work. Thank you for embarking on this adventure with me and thanks again to iwtv for the prompt that got this whole thing rolling. 
> 
> With that said, please enjoy this last chapter!

"Well, I think my job is done here. You two seem to have done well for yourselves." A beautiful woman with elaborately coiffed hair, an elegant green dress, and a knowing smile sits across the table from Thomas. Looking around, he sees he's back in the dining room of the house in London. The room has that queer feeling around the edges, as if a memory only half remembered. Ah, a dream. To his left, James is in his Lieutenant's uniform, looking as baffled as Thomas feels. 

"I am sorry I could not have prevented your tragedy, but I like to think I gave you the tools to cope, to survive. Your beloved Marcus Aurelius would say 'How lucky I am that I am not broken by what has happened, and I am not afraid of what is about to happen. For the same blow might have stricken any one, but not many who would have absorbed it without capitulation and complaint.' You two have survived and have found your rocky promontory in each other. Now, I think, you have no more need of me." 

She stands gracefully and goes first to Thomas, then to James, bestowing on each a kiss to the forehead. She lingers beside James. "You might blame me. I understand. But I did only what I could to protect you, to give you both a chance at happiness." She crosses to the door and turns back with one hand curled around the door frame. "I'll always be watching, my loves. Take care of each other." She leaves the room. 

As if freed from an invisible restraint, Thomas leaps to his feet and rushes to the door. No one in sight. Not a breath of air stirs to mark someone's passing. And yet, a whiff of a lady's perfume. Turning back to the table, he sees James clutching the edge of it with white fingers, face distraught. "James?" 

The room dissolves around them as James lifts his head to meet Thomas' eyes. 

Thomas wakes to the sea breeze coiling round his overheated body in his bed in the Governor's mansion. James is asleep next to him, body twitching in the throes of dreaming. Quietly, Thomas slips from the bed, dresses to the minimum for propriety, and opens the door onto his terrace. From the moon, it's either late night or early morning. Bawdiness from the taverns below suggests it's still late enough for citizens and former pirates to be buying drinks and girls with money from trade. 

Six months, it's been, since Lord Thomas Hamilton was appointed Governor of the Bahamas. He still can't quite believe it's real. 

Thomas smiles as an arm curls around his waist and lips press at the back of his neck. "Couldn't sleep?" James' voice is low and roughened with sleep. 

"I just woke up, actually. 'In this sleep of death, what dreams may come.'" He chuckles. "Dreams of London apparently."

James' body goes rigid behind him. "You were in the city?"

"At home actually. At the dining room table."

"And there was a woman." 

Thomas turns slowly. "Now how do you know that?"

"Wasn't I there?"

"In more ways than one, apparently. James..."

"Did you recognize her?"

"No, I've never seen her before."

"I have. That night on the Maria Aleyne. She was the one who cursed me. She's the one who made me that Beast."

Parsing together her words and her caring demeanor, Thomas concludes: "And as a Beast, you searched for love and found me. Would you still have, had you been a pirate captain? Or would I be hidden away, slaving on a plantation somewhere by now?"

James doesn't answer, but his hands clutch tightly at Thomas. Thomas moves to change the subject. Whatever the dream, whoever the woman, James clearly needs solace to cope with it. 

"I hadn't heard you come in. How fared your midnight tryst?"

"The Ranger has been harassing the ships of Hispaniola. Little in the way of hard money, but the goods should turn a clean profit. They're stored at Hal's farm for now and when the Walrus returns, we'll send it out to Rackham's man in Philadelphia."

"This is the worthy Mr. Featherstone?"

James snorts. "There can be no doubt this is Eleanor's family if they can turn a pirate into an agent and a whore into a merchant's wife." 

Thomas shakes his head, chuckling. "Apparently her grandmother is quite the dragon. Have you noticed the influx of well-connected young women of marrying age to the island? Max says she's determined to get me a wife."

James lifts an eyebrow."You know your unmarried state is going to raise some eyebrows. Maybe you should marry Eleanor, just to keep you two out of trouble."

To be fair, she is the closest thing to James Thomas thinks he could find in a woman. The thought makes him smile. 

"I did hear something interesting from some of Vane's crew. Last Spanish ship they took, some of the sailors were babbling about _oro_ , but there was nothing of note on board. Have you heard anything?"

"One of their great treasure ships, perhaps. We could send Charles on a treasure hunt, get him out of our hair for a while."

He feels James shrug behind him. "Vane isn't one for the long game. To find something concrete would involve stalking the right ships, the right registers, knowing what buttons to push. I could mention it, but I doubt it'll go anywhere."

James yawns. The hour is late and with his nerves cooled after the dream, they really ought to go back to bed. But–

"Have you thought of what we'll do after?"

"After what?" 

"After the governorship passes on. Retire to the interior, maybe find ourselves a plot of land in the colonies. I rather think that's the best idea, actually, but I want to know what you think."

"You've only been Governor for six months, my lord. Already looking to escape?"

"I went along with your plan. Honestly, it's everything we wanted, back in London, and it's exhilarating to actually carry it out, but I think we've earned our retirement."

"You? Retire?"

"Well, a man's work is never done." He turns in James' arms and studies his face. "All this time, you were the monster of their stories. Then I was their savior. I rather think we should settle somewhere we're unknown, leave the Beast and the savior to the stories."

He smiles then. "We have time to think on it. Come back to bed, my dear?" Tugging on James' hand, he leads him inside. 

 

All Thomas wanted to do in his youth was to change the world. He has his chance now, even if the world is as small as one island. And he can do it with a good man and a true love by his side. Their road here was long, painful, never easy, it was something out of the heroes' myths, but Thomas sleeps in the Governor's rooms with James' body slotted against his and he couldn't ask God or man for anything more.

**Author's Note:**

> Come follow me on tumblr at [KelAlannan](Kelalannan.tumblr.com) for Black Sails, tall ships, and other sundries.


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